


Passage

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [22]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Beta'd by Booklindworm, Gen, Growing Up, Knighthood, Lightsaber Training, Responsibility, lightsaber forms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 56,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27768898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: To step forward, in many cases, is also to step away.
Relationships: Ben Naasade/ Fay, Shmi Skywalker/Tholme
Series: The Desert Storm [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311746
Comments: 1506
Kudos: 1976





	1. Chapter 1

Shmi jolts awake, fingers closing on the handle of the vibroknife she still sleeps with, only for Tholme’s half-asleep grumble to make her hesitate. Her heart still pounds, but her senses register his warm weight next to hers, and the lack of danger, and she breathes in calm.

Still, she thinks, there is… something.

She slides from the bed and Tholme shifts, scowls in his sleep, searching for her missing heat with one hand, and almost reaches wakefulness before she presses a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. He cracks an eye open. “Morning?”

“No,” Shmi replies, patting his shoulder, “I’ll return.”

He has to leave in the morning, having stopped over on Alderaan only for a day at the tail end of what he claims was a fairly boring protection detail assignment. Many Jedi are getting into the habit of just stopping by on their way back to the Temple.

Shmi is glad he is. Mimi is currently in the phase of having learned what ‘mine’ means, and while she doesn’t have a very clear grasp on what ‘parent’ means, she understands enough to know Tholme somehow falls into the category of ‘mine,’ and has latched onto his robe saying so.

It was very endearing, particularly since Tholme’s method of dealing with his inability to reason with the toddler has evolved into picking her up and staring at her skeptically. She tends to copy the look right back at him until she gets bored and says a very sweet, very well enunciated “down please,” and runs off to play.

Shmi wraps a robe around herself and slips out into the hall, only a little discomforted by the cold floors.

Having taught most of the younger Jedi to hide, and being so skilled at it herself, Shmi is unparalleled when it comes to sensing when someone is sneaking about, and that is the sense she has now, but there is something…

Exceptionally elusive about this presence, familiarly so.

Shmi huffs out a breath and smiles, bundling her robe a little tighter and making for the upper level initiates dorms.

She briefly considers sneaking up on him herself, but reasons that neither of them react particularly well to such a surprise, and it would be safer to refrain. She pads up quietly, knowing he’ll sense her, and joins him in the arch opening to the sleeping room.

In one of the nearest beds, Anakin and Jax are sprawled out, limbs tangled in limbs and blankets, their togruta friend Codi curled up in a ball around a pillow, back to back with Anakin. She thinks there might be a pet _dakuun_ in there somewhere, but it is hard to tell in the shadows.

Across the dorm, the crèchemaster meditating on night-watch duty opens their eyes to nod at Shmi, acknowledging her presence before slipping back into meditation, their watchful presence a source of soothing calm for the sleeping younglings, helping soothe away any nightmares.

“Ben,” Shmi whispers, nudging him. He looks over at her and smiles.

“Shmi,” he whispers back.

Shmi offers a hand and he takes it, and they slip discreetly away from the dorm so as not to disturb anyone’s rest. Once they’re far enough away not to catch even the more sensitive of ears, Shmi squeezes his hand. “You’re finally back,” she says.

“I am,” he agrees simply, looking… well, tanner and more freckled than she saw him last, his hair sunlightened, his frame finally regained of a healthy weight, and his gait is far smoother than it had been when he’d left. He looks a little chafed but otherwise well. He _feels_ well, to her senses.

Shmi has never known anyone to go to Tatooine and _heal_. She is pleasantly surprised.

“You were missed,” Shmi says directly. “It will be good to have you and Obi-Wan around for a bit.”

“Ah… Obi-Wan is not with me.”

Shmi gives him a sharp, puzzled look. “He is not with you?”

“Not… yet,” Ben placates. “We took separate routes home to see who would get here first. I boarded one Trade Clan vessel and he another – lovely people, very interesting kinship organization, good learning experience,” he nods, pleased with himself.

“You left your padawan in the Outer Rim?” Shmi inquires, highly skeptical. “Ben, did he even have any credits to pay for passage?”

“Neither of us did. That was part of the challenge,” Ben smirks playfully, “and he is… not exactly my padawan anymore.”

“Ben _Naasade_ ,” Shmi scolds, and swats him on the arm. “The _trouble_ you cause. That poor boy.”

He’d let her know when they were leaving Tatooine, and to expect it would take some time. After all, it had taken weeks to get there travelling as they had.

That was a month and a half ago.

~*~

It takes Obi-Wan two months to reach Alderaan.

It’s raining when he arrives, and he’s so pleased with it he removes his bucket and just lets it drench him until someone gets concerned enough to fetch him in.

Obi-Wan follows the very dutiful older initiate inside to find Ben stepping into the foyer. The man doesn’t react quick enough to stop the sopping wet young knight to stride up and wrap him in a firm embrace.

“Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan- could you _resist_ \- what is that?” Ben finally manages to fend him off, and Obi-Wan grins brightly. He drops his satchel off his shoulder and fetches the egg from the pouch newly fastened to his belt.

“An _egg_.”

“Yes, I see that,” Ben remarks dryly, “What kind?”

“No idea. A fellow I helped out on Ryloth gave it to me.”

“Ryloth?” Ben puffs. “That’s further out than Tatooine.”

“ _Is_ it?” Obi-Wan remarks, with sharp brightness. “I’d never have known.”

“How did you end up on Ryloth?”

“We answered a distress call, accidentally picked up a fugitive, got ourselves arrested and shipped back to Ryloth with our fugitive friend, negotiated ourselves out of being criminally charged in exchange for doing a favor for the local magistrate, did the favor, got arrested for _that_ , broke out of jail, found out the local magistrate was actually rather corrupt, brought them up on charges to the _planetary_ magistrate-“

Ben holds up a hand, pinching his brow with the other. “Where does the egg come in?”

“Oh, I stopped a mugging in the space port on my way out. Fellow was an animal trader of some kind. Exotics – legal ones, insofar as I could tell,” Obi-Wan shrugs. “He insisted I accept _something_ , and it was either an egg or a Kowakian monkey-lizard. I rather think it will hatch soon and I was getting a bit worried I wouldn’t make it back to the temple in time.”

“Well, at least it isn’t a Kowakian monkey-lizard,” Ben shakes his head. “It seems you had quite the adventure.”

“I kept getting mistaken for a bounty hunter,” Obi-Wan says, “I actually took one of the offers – local authorities were at their wits end and it wasn’t _that_ far out of my way, but I had to stop three assassination attempts after being handed contracts. They weren’t even very discreet about it, either.”

“Mandalorian reputation precedes us, Obi-Wan,” Ben snorts. “Fortunately for the targets, you _weren’t_ an assassin.”

“Nn.”

“Obi-Wan?”

“Hm?”

“Welcome back.”

Obi-Wan smiles brightly. “How far ahead of me were you?” he inquires.

“A couple weeks,” Ben smirks.

Obi-Wan nods, looking thoughtful. “So… that’s how long you’ve been hiding from the council, then?”

“Well,” Ben mutters, crossing his arms. “You didn’t have to say it quite like that.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan lifts a brow. “And how should I have said it?”

“That is how long I have been waiting for my errant knight to return so we can officially report back for duty together,” Ben sniffs primly.

“Well, I _could_ say it like that,” Obi-Wan drawls, “except that makes it sound like we aren’t in any trouble at all.”

“Who says we’re going to be in trouble?” Ben scoffs loftily.

Obi-Wan gives him a look.

“Oh, all right, we’re always in trouble,” Ben concedes, the main culprit in that.

“That is because you are trouble-makers and there is no curing you of it.”

“Shmi!” Obi-Wan grins and strides towards her, but Shmi has no desire to get wet, and fends him off with a sharp warning look. He stops shy of an embrace, grinning sheepishly, and offers his hands. Those she is willing to take, squeezing his chilled fingers. “I brought you some spices from Tatooine, and some loose japor snippets.”

Her gaze warms brightly, her smile softening into sweetness. She lifts one hand to his cheek. “I missed you also, Obi-Wan,” she teases, with gratitude.

He flushes a little, happy, and fetches his satchel, the promised gifts inside. “Well, Ben gave you a house, and I felt it would be terribly remiss of me to come back empty-handed.”

Shmi laughs. “Coming back is gift enough, and that goes for the both of you.” She looks between them, and they both shyly duck their heads at such regard. “Come in and get dried up. It’s almost mealtime and I want to hear stories Ben hasn’t edited.”

Ben sputters, and she flashes him a rare grin.

~*~

Obi-Wan didn’t expect the pressure that burst in his chest when Anakin dashes up to him and throws himself in for a hug, didn’t expect for it to slam into him as he was holding to boy in a squeezing embrace that this little boy – this little boy was –

He squeezes Anakin a little tighter, earning a grunt.

“Why are you sad?” Anakin wheezes, gripping back just as tight, even though it’s undoubtedly uncomfortable.

Obi-Wan lets out a helpless laugh. “I really missed you. I love you.”

Anakin wriggles, and Obi-Wan sets him down. The nine-year-old’s face is scrunched up. “I missed you too.”

Obi-Wan smiles, and works on breathing out the dense emotion in his chest, and ruffles Anakin’s hair.

 _I promise you a better future,_ he swears to the boy, _just as Ben has promised me._

“You’re being weird,” Anakin accuses, crossing his arms in a huff. Obi-Wan shrugs. “Mom says you’re a knight now. Does that mean you can take me as your padawan?” Anakin bounces on his toes.

“When we’re both older, Anakin,” Obi-Wan nearly yelps, “I haven’t even been recognized as a knight by the Council.”

“But Ben cut your braid, and you’re – I dunno – you feel different,” Anakin argues.

“I’m not ready to be a master yet, and you’ve a bit more learning and growing to do before you’re ready to be a padawan, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says resolutely, “No matter how far ahead of your age-mates you might be. I am aware that you are smart and talented, but you are still _nine years old._ And I am only nineteen.”

“Okay,” Anakin sighs, aggrieved, “You missed our birthday.”

“I know,” Obi-Wan rubs the boy’s shoulders, “did your friends celebrate?”

“Mn-hm. Aayla and Codi sang a song for me and Etain showed me and Jax how to make flower crowns and we made ones for all the crèchemasters and they all wore them and mom made _tzai_ for midnight break.”

Obi-Wan smiles. “It sounds like a lovely start to your next year.”

Anakin nods, “It was, everybody wished for good things for me for this year and it made me really happy. Even Kai and Ferus made good-will wishes for me, and we don’t get along.”

“Do you have to get along to wish someone well?” Obi-Wan questions.

“No,” Anakin replies, mumbling a little. “But we’re always arguing.”

“Sometimes it’s like that,” Obi-Wan says, “I hope you can return such good-will when _their_ birthdays come around.”

“I will!” Anakin promises, bouncing on his toes again, “You got presents, though.”

“Did I?” Obi-Wan tips his head curiously.

“From Mandalore. They were delivered to mom for you. She wouldn’t let me see.”

Obi-Wan chuckles, “Well then, let's join everyone for dinner and maybe she’ll let _me_ see what they are, hm?” He turns and offers Anakin his back, and the boy whoops in delight before scrambling up to his shoulders, nearly kneeing him in the head.

“Let’s go!”

~*~

Jango had sent him more Concordian silk.

To be specific, _lilac_ colored silk.

Ben coughs, and Obi-Wan flushes pink.

“Is there something…?” Shmi inquires, puzzled.

To which the both of them quickly reply, “No, no, it’s nothing.”

Of the four Skywalkers with them for dinner, only little Mimi isn’t giving them a skeptically disbelieving look, and that’s because Omi is more interested in her pudding than in the subtle complexities of certain Mandalorian traditions.

Dinner – as it always is with younglings of a certain age range and with friends of such amiability – is lively, full of stories from all parties, and slowly winds down when it gets time to send the boys back to the crèchemasters for evening meditation, and Omi to the nursery to maintain her routine.

The three adults, afterwards, retreat to the developing bonsai garden on the ninth roof. The evenings are still fairly cold, the region in early summer yet, but there are heat lanterns strung above the roof, providing a gentle wash of heat, making it quite comfortable.

Shmi turns into the light breeze and sighs softly. She blinks out at the stars, pensive, and Ben and Obi-Wan share a curious glance.

“Did Ben tell you what he set out to tell you?” Shmi finally asks, arms folded together against her ribs, posture tight. She turns and looks at Obi-Wan, her gaze sharp and her eyes deep. “What he was afraid to tell you?”

Obi-Wan glances at Ben, and then looks back to Shmi, whose own gaze doesn’t waver.

“Much of it,” Obi-Wan says honestly, “as much as either of us could bear.”

Shmi swallows. “Is it worth knowing?”

Obi-Wan furrows his brow, uncertain as to her meaning.

 _“Must_ I know?” Shmi clarifies, something sharp and defiant in her tone, something hard and something scared.

Obi-Wan draws in a breath and holds it, thinking, and Ben – Ben stands there, beside them both, very still, his expression unreadable as he stares at Shmi.

“You have the right to-“ Ben starts, and Shmi whips a glare at him.

“Ten months, Ben. The better end of a year, and I have had nothing to do but wait and wonder. Perhaps I have the right to know, but perhaps, you foolish man, I do not _want_ to. Perhaps I am as afraid of hearing what you have to say as you are of having to tell me. So answer me this, Ben, _must_ I know? _Must_ you tell me?”

Ben’s lips part, but no words come. He looks vulnerable and uncertain.

Obi-Wan stares at the man, wondering pitifully how much more to the horror there was. He has only the edges and consequences of Anakin’s story – and no details at all of where it left Shmi.

“No.”

Ben and Shmi look to Obi-Wan. The word left _his_ lips, after all.

“You don’t want to know,” Obi-Wan states, for reaffirmation, looking at Shmi.

“I care more for the man I know than the man he might have been,” Shmi whispers, “I don’t want to know.”

Obi-Wan blinks, at the refrain, which sounds… not unlike a Mandalorian proverb. He shakes it from his thoughts – it hardly matters at the moment. He looks at Ben, “Then until she wants to know, don’t force her to. It should be her choice as much as yours.”

Ben glances between them both, still with that unreadable look, and then –

_Relief._

The older red-head shudders with it, and pulls Shmi into an embrace. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs softly, “I didn’t mean to leave you in… distress.”

Shmi snorts against his shoulder and then pulls back from the embrace. They both take a moment to gather themselves, and Obi-Wan tries not to study them too deeply as they do.

 _What a mess,_ he thinks privately. _Time-travel is awful._

“Anything else dramatic we ought to get out of the way?” Obi-Wan inquires wryly.

Shmi shoots him a look, tucking a lock of hair back from her face. “I’m thinking I should return to field-work soon.”

“Oh.”


	2. Chapter 2

A high collared black undershirt, a white shirt with pale grey details, a lilac tunic, his mercurial, shimmering tabards, a black belt to match his black trousers and boots, and then his deep jade green armor, trimmed in silver, a copper mythosaur crawling up one arm and the sigil of a Mandalorian Jedi on his shoulder. Obi-Wan traces the simple, softening addition of lilac coloring and feels a blush turn his ears red.

_ Clan Kryze. _

_ We aren’t married, _ Obi-Wan thinks. But he’s oddly pleased to wear Satine’s colors nonetheless.

“It suits you,” Ben remarks, grinning from behind him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

Obi-Wan turns and eyes his master. “We’ll have to thank Queen Breha again for lending us her seamstress.”

Unfortunately, the queen is too busy for them to get the chance to visit in person, but they aren’t going to leave Alderaan without at least having holocalled her. Ben is all too happy to indulge her in gossip, and she thinks Obi-Wan and Satine’s story of duty and love too sorrowful and sweet not to indulge when he mentions the gift of silks.

“Although I’m not sure what Mand’alor is thinking,” Obi-Wan adds, muttering.

“Maybe he thinks it ought to be indulged as well,” Ben smirks, “or he thinks you two ought to be married. Or it’s his way of passive-aggressively reminding you that Satine misses you.”

Obi-Wan offers his master a pinched look. “Or he’s not so subtly trying to encourage me to leave the Order for Satine and thus go back to Mandalore. I think  _ he _ misses us. I know he certainly misses you.”

It’s Bens turn to lift a puzzled brow.

“Bo-Katan sends me angry messages about how irritating we are even when we aren’t there. There were quite a few left on my comm-line,” Obi-Wan explains. She also tends to ask him random questions about the Jedi which he presumes came up from interacting with the MediCorps and AgriCorps divisions on Mandalore and insults and complaints about the Jedi in general and occasionally him specifically.

He’s not sure if she’s just lonely or attempting to establish some sort of relationship – even an aggressive one - with someone who was, in one way or another due to both Satine and Jango, part of her family.

“Ah,” Ben remarks simply, shaking his head.

“You… have comm’d Jango, right?” Obi-Wan inquires.

“Yes,” Ben says shortly, “he spent ten minutes informing me explicitly of how much of a  _ shabuir _ I was and then very gruffy said he was glad I was back and then threatened me with what he would do if I ever disappeared like that again.”

Obi-Wan grins and Ben gives him a sour look, “Stop that, are you ready to go?”

“As soon as Shmi is,” Obi-Wan replies. The decision had been made that she would join them on their journey back to Coruscant, not only due to her desire to request a transfer back to field status, but to report to the High Council as to the situation and standing of the Temple of Chimes and convey the concerns and proposals of the Crèche and Reassignment Councils in person.

They track Shmi down and find her surrounded by displeased younglings who quite adore her and aren’t happy she’s going away, her own children clinging to her legs.

Anakin spots Obi-Wan and Ben and runs up to them with a thunderous scowl. Obi-Wan half expects to be kicked for being the one to escort his mother away, but Anakin throws himself at Obi-Wan instead, and Obi-Wan obligingly scoops him up, the boy radiating distress.

“I don’t want  _ amu _ to leave.” Anakin mumbles, voice wavering on the edge of bursting into tears. “I don’t want any of you to leave. Can’t we  _ all _ come with you?”

“Oh, Anakin…”

The boy whines, and Ben looks very sympathetic, reaching out to lay a hand on the youngling’s hair. His gaze catches Obi-Wan’s, a complicated knot of emotions spanning between them both.

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath, and Anakin squirms, pushing back from Obi-Wan’s shoulder so they can properly look at each other. Desert sky blue eyes bore into blue-grey.

Anakin looks down first. “You have to go and I can’t come with you. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for being sad, Anakin,” Obi-Wan smiles softly, “I’m sad you can’t come with us too, but you have more learning and growing to do  _ here,  _ and we have duties to attend to elsewhere.”

“I know,” the boy sighs heavily, and wriggles to be dropped back onto his feet, “I miss you.”

“I miss you as well,” Obi-Wan says, crouching down, “I always do, and part of you is always with me.”

Anakin scrubs at his face with the back of one hand and nods determinedly. “I’ll do good in my classes, I promise, and I’ll be patient. I’ll be the best student, so you can take me as your padawan soon.”

Obi-Wan can’t help but grin, and he glances up at Ben, whose gaze is very soft and a little pained. Obi-Wan glances back down quickly. Ben’s emotions are tightly wrapped through the Force, but his eyes are expressive. “Oh, Anakin,” the young knight says, “I’ll be dutiful as well, so that when the time comes, we’re  _ both _ ready.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Anakin takes a deep breath and nods. “Be a good knight. I’ll – I’ll see you.”

He dashes back to his mother, who is having some difficulty actually separating herself from the kids.

Ben takes a measured, steadying breath, and Obi-Wan glances back to him as he stands.

“Be a good knight, Obi-Wan,” Ben repeats, dredging up a drawl.

His ears redden, but he refuses to give in to the teasing. “Sure thing,  _ pa,” _ he retorts quietly.

Ben huffs an abrupt bark of laughter. “Don’t feed those rumors,” he shakes his head.

Obi-Wan lifts both brows in disbelief. “Ben, we look more alike than we ever have.”

“And everyone may draw their own conclusions from that,” Ben retorts fussily, “you don’t have to encourage them.”

~*~

Fay greets them when Obi-Wan brings the  _ Lighthawk _ into dock, mist-grey eyes giving them both a brief once-over before she lets out a pealing giggle.

_ “Fay,” _ Ben utters exasperatedly, tone too fond to really be scolding. The golden-haired woman saunters up to him playfully, but turns at the last second to Obi-Wan.

“This is going to be  _ delightful,” _ she remarks.

“Obliged to entertain, Master Fay,” Obi-Wan returns easily, offering a bow and a charming smile. Shmi joins them and Fay greets her with much less teasing before finally turning and looping her arm into Ben’s.

She looks up at Ben expectantly.

“Hello there,” he says warmly, amused at the glimmer in her eyes, feeling something in him ease with her presence. He has missed her, missed the quiet relief of finding her there when he woke from nightmares, missed her humor and her wisdom and the kinship between them that others couldn’t quite match, for being two survivors of galactic war, two people out of time. Missed the peace of reaching out and finding someone who understood the aching desire to do so, and how painfully vulnerable it felt to do it; to touch another person, to feel not alone, to trust.

He had missed her – he hadn’t realized  _ how much, _ until she was standing beside him again.

Her smile curls and she turns her head away loftily. “You shouldn’t flirt in public, Ben.”

Ben huffs. “I only said hello.”

“Yes, well, that’s enough, isn’t it?” Fay glances back at him, fully pleased with herself.

Obi-Wan and Shmi snicker like children, and Ben rolls his eyes heavenward.

~*~

Obi-Wan is  _ almost _ disoriented enough not to notice the glances and incredulous looks as they make their way through the temple, and he  _ would _ pay them more mind if –

“Are you alright?” Shmi takes his hand, concerned. Ben and Fay both glance over.

“Headache,” Obi-Wan murmurs, not wanting to worry her. The line between her brows says he’s likely not very successful.

He feels… He feels as though he is walking through a mist, and there are people walking through it beside him who he cannot see and cannot touch, right there, and yet just beyond him. More so, he feels as if that mist sinks beneath his feet, and goes deep, deep, and down, an ocean without substance. He has never quite felt the  _ space _ beneath his feet before, but the real surface of Coruscant is far, far below, and he is more acutely aware of it than he ever has been before.

An effect of the Cosmic Force, he thinks.

An unsettling effect.

_ I’ll have to get used to that, _ he shakes his head and offers Shmi a simple smile.

“You’re shielding very tightly,” Shmi replies. “I’m holding your hand and I can barely sense you. What is it?”

“You remember when you first came to Coruscant from Tatooine?” Obi-Wan inquires. Frowning, Shmi nods.

Obi-Wan gives her a rueful smile. “It’s a  _ lot. _ I suppose I got too used to the isolation.”

It’s a half-truth at best, but a better truth would take far too long to explain, and he isn’t sure yet he can even explain it properly to himself, let alone someone else. He would just like to reassure her.

“If you say so,” Shmi replies, skeptical but accepting.  She is one who understands the sanctity of secrets very well. She has plenty of her own.

Shmi leaves them when they turn to head to the Halls for a health screening – a standard measure for long jaunts about the galaxy – and Fay goes with her, pressing for details about  how the crèche is faring on Alderaan and how her children are doing.

They wait twenty minutes for Healer Chias to be available, and the pantoran healer shoos them both into a screening room.

They’d both been through a public screening when they landed on Alderaan,  so they know they pass general inspection , but Essja interrogates them about their travels and does a more thorough examination, adding changes in height and weight and sleeping patterns to their files, and giving Ben’s artificial limb a thorough once over.

“Honestly, Master Naasade, you’re in better condition than when you departed. Well done,” Essja says, too genuine for Ben to feel patronized by it. The pantoran is sincerely happy to see him in good health. Obi-Wan adds to the effect by smiling softly at the older man, rather pleased himself.

Given the healer's stamp of approval, they send notice to the new quartermaster that they’ve returned to residence, and Ben blandly informs Obi-Wan that he’s submitted an official promotion notice to the Council.

“Which means I hope you’ve submitted the last of your assignments?” Ben implores.

“For all the required journey-man level credits, yes,” Obi-Wan confirms, “I still have a few elective programs to complete.”

“There’s no rush on those. You may pursue your continued education at your leisure,” Ben replies, as they reach their quarters.

“Wait,” Obi-Wan stops him, “do you want me to make sure the plants haven’t taken over first?”

Ben huffs. “Don’t tease me about that, I was under a great amount of stress.”

“I was being completely genuine.”

“My breakdown at that time had nothing to do with the plants, Obi-Wan.”

“It had a little to do with the plants.”

Ben sighs, and gestures him forward. “Fine,” he mutters.

Obi-Wan claps the older man on the shoulder and ducks inside. He had enlisted his friends to maintain them in their absence, and true to their word, the luminescent vines had been dutifully trimmed, the red ferns and white-leaved trees kept from overgrowing their pots. He checks the fresher. The flowering moss is a little overgrown around the mirror, but hardly worth note.

“All clear.”

Ben rolls his eyes, stepping inside, but he does look put at ease when he sees so for himself. Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“It’s good to be home,” Obi-Wan says.

“It is,” Ben agrees.


	3. Chapter 3

Mace Windu stares at him sternly over steepled fingers, brow sorrowed deeply.

Obi-Wan bows his head meekly, glancing up through his lashes, eyes glimmering with earnestness.

Those deep brown eyes narrow further and cut askance to focus on Ben.

Master Yoda’s lips are pursed, his eyes closed thoughtfully, ears perked; Fay is blatantly hiding a grin behind her hand; Master Dooku looks utterly impassive; Master Rancisis is stroking his beard pensively, eyes brightly intrigued; and Master Fisto – well, does anyone ever know what Master Fisto is really up to behind that smile of his? Master Yaddle is present only in holo, and aside from her scrutinizing gaze, her thoughts and expression are inscrutable; Master Sinube, chairman of the Judicorps is also present, as is Chairman Concazzi of the ExploraCorps, the former looking faintly amused, the latter bored and mildly perplexed.

“Knighted your padawan, you have, hm?” Yoda intones, eyes cracking open, looking faintly disapproving. “Hasty, were you?”

“I was not,” Ben replies unrepentantly, hands clasped before himself, the bracelet made of Obi-Wan’s braid on his wrist in display just below his vambrace.

“Hm…” Yoda peers at them both. Ben turns his head slightly, glancing at the young man beside him.

“Obi-Wan, perhaps you could lower your shields just a _little?”_ he implores.

Obi-Wan blinks at the older man and then nods hesitantly before relaxing the tight containment he was holding on his senses. He had felt pulled by the deep desert, by the whispers that stirred between the wind and the sands – quiet, urging sensations that caught him off guard in still moments.

Coruscant, in comparison, feels like he is constantly being called from behind, constantly just missing something out of the corner of his eye. Even his dreams last night were full of voices, faces he couldn’t quite see, words he couldn’t quite hear, making his sleep restless, tossing between a blurred dreaming and uncertain awakening.

Obi-Wan breathes in deep and lets it out, lets himself unspool into the embrace of the Force, into the grounding light of the temple itself, feeling the world pull in and rush out, expanding in brilliant detail as it embraces him and he his place within it.

Master Dooku sucks in a sharp breath, and Master Fisto leans forward, intrigued. Master Rancisis stills, pulling his hand from his beard, and the furrow in Master Windu’s brow lifts in surprise.

Windu, Yoda, and Dooku all turn sharp looks on Ben, whose expression is placid and whose presence is smirking. Obi-Wan glances between them.

“Is that sufficient?” Ben inquires serenely.

“What did you _do_ to him?” Master Windu demands, lifting a hand.

Obi-Wan frowns a little, defensive. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

Master Windu cuts him a deeply exasperated look. “Pa- Knight Kenobi,” he sighs, rubbing at his brow. “I did not mean to imply –” he cuts himself off and presses his lips together before trying again, shooting Ben a pointed look. “This may be difficult to discern from an internal perspective, but had you _already_ been a knight, your current depth and connection to the Force would be indicative of one on the verge of attaining _Mastery._ That is no simple amount of progress, and it is well within this council’s purview to be concerned as to what you may have been put through to achieve it.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Obi-Wan replies, internally taking a moment to process that little revelation and reminding himself to bring _the verge of attaining mastery_ business up with Ben later.

Master Windu stares at him for half a minute before realizing that Obi-Wan is, in fact, going to refuse to say more on the matter. Obi-Wan stopped caring to permit the council to question Ben’s training methods years ago.

Master Windu makes a displeased sound but nods. “Master Fay?” he turns to the golden-haired woman, who turns her head, sobering a little from her glee. She blinks blankly, and it clearly takes her a moment to recall that she is present as the head of the HeriCorps division, and that her evaluation of any padawan’s Force abilities is required for their progression to knighthood.

“I do believe my conclusion is quite obvious, Master Windu,” she says sweetly, “he certainly has the presence of a Jedi Knight.”

She smiles at him, and Obi-Wan inclines his head in gratitude.

“Chairmen?”

“His diplomatic training meets the journeymen level standard,” Master Rancisis nods.

Master Sinube chortles, “Professor Vreen would like him to defend his thesis on Law and Morality before assigning his grade. However, given the standard of his previous work, I believe his judicial training will be verified as more than adequate for promotion.”

Chairman Concazzi takes a moment to realize attention has fallen on him next. He checks his datapad. “ Explorer Corps is willing to certify him as a pilot and a navigator,” his eyes scan the screen and the corner of his mouth quirks, “I _would_ recommend a few more mechanical courses, if you ask me.”

“Thank you, Chairmen,” Master Windu nods, and then turns a weighty gaze back on Obi-Wan. Then he turns to Master Yoda, who nods.

Yoda lifts his head, and Obi-Wan turns dutifully towards the grandmaster, whose gaze twinkles just a little, the same gentle encouragement Obi-Wan has received from the wizened elder all his life. “By the right of the Council, recognize Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, we do.”

Obi-Wan bows, and bows deeply.

“Thank you, Masters.”

~*~

“Not so fast, Naasade,” Mace barks, catching him in the corridor as soon as his duties from the council permit him the leave to do so.

Ben turns, a prim expression of innocence on his face. “What can I do for you, Master Windu?”

“Don’t give me that, you son of a gundark,” Mace growls, stepping up to him. A nearby padawan gives him a scandalized look.

 _“Councilor,”_ Ben lifts his brows in teasing reproach, and Mace glowers short-temperedly at him, taking a huff of a breath.

 _“Cheating,”_ he declares hotly, stepping close for privacy, “knighting _yourself_ is cheating.”

“He’s well earned it,” Ben retorts, a grin gracing his lips, “You can’t say he hasn’t.”

“He had an unfair advantage,” the Korun master grumbles.

“That’s a bit harsh,” Ben tsks, stroking his beard, “His master merely had… incredible insight as to his needs and potential.”

“Is _that_ what you told him?” Mace snorts.

“No,” Ben replies, losing most of his humor, “I told him the truth.”

That takes the thrust out of Mace’s propulsion, and the councilor turns in surprise. “You… _told_ him.”

Ben nods, bearing the incredulous expression on the younger man’s face with grace.

“How did he take it?” Mace crosses his arms, brows softening in concern.

“Better than I had hoped for,” Ben replies, smiling sheepishly, “he truly is a _good_ young man, and I am very proud of him.”

“He’s… dealing with it well, then?”

Ben draws a breath and sighs, rubbing a knuckle across his lower lip. “He has _dealt_ with it well. I think, however, that being home again will make some revelations more difficult to reconcile. I am hoping that he may be able to turn to you when such matters trouble him. I would like to recommend as such to him, if you are amenable.”

Mace nods in agreement. “Of course, my counsel is always available to him. As is my friendship, and that goes for you both.”

Ben feels his ears redden a little. He clears his throat. “Yes, well, that’s… good. Thank you.”

Mace snorts, laying a palm against his arm. “Any time, my friend. Speaking of, would you care to join me for tea this afternoon? I _am_ rather curious as to what the two of you were up to and I have been deprived of your company for quite some time.”

“Did you miss us?” Ben inquires, a little cheekily.

Mace gives him a droll look and sighs in exaggerated suffering. “I suppose I did.”

~*~

The last person Qui-Gon expects to see upon opening his door is Obi-Wan Kenobi. As such, he frowns in consternation at the boy, who glances away in mild discomfort before looking back up.

“Master Jinn,” he tips his head.

“Sian is not here,” Qui-Gon replies, a bit brusquely, but – he does not know what to do with the boy, how to treat him. Their last parting was certainly… something. Still, he was his padawan’s friend, and the padawan of-

Qui-Gon registers the lack of a braid. “Tell me he did not _knight_ you?” he blurts out, flabbergasted. The boy was _nineteen_ and only just. His services to the order and talent with Force manipulation aside, could he really be ready for the responsibilities and authority of knighthood? His promotion to senior padawan had been dubiously early, and he has barely been a padawan for only half as long as his training ought to last.

“He has, yes, and the council agreed. I was not looking for Sian, Master Jinn, but for yourself,” Obi-Wan replies calmly, moving past the topic with curt courtesy, a muscle in his jaw ticking but none of his temper in his voice.

“For me?” Qui-Gon crosses his arms, eyeing the boy skeptically and wishing his padawan were here. He feels he could use the buffer.

However, Sian, at present, is accompanying Master Gallia and her padawan on assignment. Qui-Gon is not fit for field-work, or at least, he does not feel so, no matter how persuasive Master Yoda attempts to be about his diplomatic acumen, and Sian needs the experience field-work provides. In spite of her refusal to consider assignment to a new master, she needs better teachers to further her training where he is… incapable. He still half hopes she’ll see that, one of these missions out there with a proper master-padawan pair.

Pad- Knight Kenobi takes a mild breath and nods, and Qui-Gon realizes quite belatedly that he had been utmost remiss in his manners in failing to invite the younger man in. Before he can remedy the action which may rather be perceived as a slight, the young man removes something from his belt and offers it towards him. “Sian tells me you have a penchant for adopting pathetic lifeforms.”

It’s an egg. Qui-Gon lifts a brow and studies it a moment before carefully taking it into his own hands. It’s warm, the surface lightly pebbled and faintly pink. “What species is this?”

“I have no idea,” the young man replies, “I rather thought that might present you with an engaging mystery. I do think it will hatch soon, however.”

Qui-Gon hums, turning the egg over carefully. He’ll need to set up an incubator box, he supposes, brushing that pad of his fingers across the shell, and try and determine the humidity requirements. A trip to the archives is likely in order.

“Will you take it?” Knight Kenobi inquires, his tone prompting. Qui-Gon blinks and looks at him with a perplexed frown. This is likely the most pleasant interaction the two of them have ever had.

“I will, thank you,” Qui-Gon nods, feeling a little… intrigued, by the project he’s been given. “Do you at least know where it comes from?”

“I received it on Ryloth, but I believe the trader said they received the clutch from a breeder on Utapau.”

“Hm…” Perhaps, perhaps, Qui-Gon thinks.

The young knight smiles, looking a little relieved and more than anxious to take his leave. “I’ll leave you to it, Master Jinn,” he bows, and departs.

Qui-Gon nods, and is just turning inside when something registers abruptly.

“You’ve returned,” he states, turning back and catching the young man off-foot.

“Yes?”

 _“Ben_ is back at the temple?” Qui-Gon clarifies, recalling a touch nervously that _Ben_ had not been pleased with him on their last parting either.

A red-hued brow quirks. “He is.”

“Ah.”

~*~

Jedi Knight Depa Billaba was curious, but a little hesitant when Pada- no, when _Knight_ Kenobi requested a scheduled meeting with her. Truth be told, she is rather embarrassed of the indecorous manner with which she had treated him as a young padawan, particularly at such a trying time in his life. She knows she was prideful, and that it had been undignified to base her judgement on rumor and reputation, but there are no excuses.

She is sure she has not left a favorable impression, so his request has caught her off-guard.

When she arrives at the meeting place - one of the smaller training salles that has been closed from observation - she finds Padawan Ventress present as well, arms crossed and a narrowed, suspicious look on her face as she scowls at an outwardly unbothered Obi-Wan Kenobi, who himself was stretching.

“Knight Billaba,” he pulls out of his stretches and nods to her, and Padawan Ventress rolls her eyes. Depa is not sure if the two were friends or rivals.

“Now can you tell me what you had to summon me here for, _Knight_ Kenobi?” Padawan Ventress drawls, flicking her short dark hair aside with a twitch of her fingers before lowering her hands to tap her nails on her lightsaber hilts.

“You weren’t _obligated_ to come, _Padawan_ Ventress,” he retorts, tone just as sharp but somehow still friendly, “and it will be clearer if I _show_ you, I think. Please,” he gestures towards the benches on the edge of the salle in invitation for them to sit and observe.

Depa joins the younger woman, whose winter pale eyes are brightly curious in spite of the sulk on her face as she strides to the edge of the room and flings herself down with a show of reluctance. Depa almost smiles at the ornery display. There is an odd charm to it.

Depa sits more gracefully, drawing her feet up on the bench and folding them beneath herself, poised to wait. She offers Knight Kenobi a nod when she settles, and he nods back, glancing to Padawan Ventress, who rolls her eyes and twirls a hand. He smirks at her.

Depa thinks that perhaps they _are_ friends.

Albeit friends with strange senses of humor.

Knight Kenobi moves to the center of the salle, but rather than ignite his saber, he… pulls a pouch from his belt and tips what look like glass pearls onto the floor, watching them scatter with strange satisfaction on his face.

Padawan Ventress makes a puzzled sound, and Depa watches with some reserve herself, but is determined to withhold judgement for now.

Then he draws his lightsaber and falls into a simple but unfamiliar stance, feet planted wide, balance leaning towards one side, lightsaber held in a forward one handed grip, but the blade turned down and back to his opposite side, nearly dipping to the ground. His free hand, strangely, was tucked behind his back.

 _Reserve judgement,_ she reminds herself.

His first blade movement sweeps upwards and then twists sharply, but what draws Depa in is that she can _feel_ the power drawn behind the blade as it cuts through the air, drawn in like a breeze, like a whirlwind, as the red-haired knight turns with another sweeping movement – and the motion does not stop. It weaves, occasionally snapping back and forth, and it takes focus to track, to realize how he’s doing it, once she notices that he cannot be relying on muscle control alone, that his momentum should not allow such sudden turn-abouts.

Through it, the power he’s pulling continues to build, forming channels around him she can almost see – and then she can. Glass pearls skitter across the floor and into the air, whipping around his body, following first his bladework, and then discreet streams of energy that swirl around his person, around his _presence_.

The demonstration takes perhaps only five or six minutes before he abruptly stops with a downward strike, holding fast. The glass pearls, however, don’t drop, though their motion slows into a calmer drifting, distinct rings slowly coalescing into one, orbiting around his body just below his chest, his center.

His eyes are closed – have been closed, Depa thinks, for at least half that demonstration – and he opens them and smiles, letting out an energetic exhale. He lifts a hand, drawing the pearls towards it, and turns towards his spectators. “I’ll go through the katas slower, but… what did you think?”

“What exactly _was_ that?” Padawan Ventress demands, outraged and excited as she slips to her feet. The room is buzzing with power still, and Padawan Ventress is more susceptible to the influence of raw energies than most. Insofar as Depa is aware, all the Dathomiri padawans are.

“That,” he grins, jubilant and a little teasing, brushing his hair back from his face, his skin flush with energy as the pearls are allowed to sink and settle on the floor, “was Daosaan, Form Eight.”

 _“You_ developed a new lightsaber form?” Padawan Ventress paces around him, and he turns to follow her, his personal delight at how peeved she was tugging at her lips evident.

 _“Am_ developing,” he corrects, once she’s back around on the same side of him as Depa herself is, having risen from the bench to approach as well. “That’s rather where I was hoping the two of you would come in.”

“It did not seem an incomplete style,” Depa muses, “though wilder than most.” She could see the influences of advanced Shii-Cho, the hints of acrobatic potential not unlike Ataru, and the aggressive defense and endurance that was utterly like his master. It definitely has the signature of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s own talents as well, however – that fluid control of the Force, that ability to shape the world around him, that dancing quickness and personal reserve, the desire to guide a confrontation into his favor rather than blazing forward forthright, in spite of having overwhelming force on his side. Power and humility are an intense combination, one he utilizes well.

“For an individual, I wouldn’t call it incomplete, though I know there is more room to expand upon it,” Knight Kenobi nods to her, his blue-grey gaze more studious when he turns it on her, “but I did not develop Daosaan purely for individual combat.”

“A moment, “ Depa requests, curious, “Daosaan?” Lightsaber forms are generally named from an archaic script, and she’s not entirely certain she’s hearing him correctly. She wants the translation.

He glances down, scratching the side of his neck before looking up. “It’s my best attempt at a conjugation of exceedingly elaborate nouns. The meaning is supposed to come out to something like ‘Dominion of One’s Path’. My master and I are betting Form Eight will be coined the Dancing Form, but the concept beneath the ‘dance’ is the understanding of the power we hold, and our control over it and ourselves; understanding our own intentions, our own actions, and where they lead,” he explains, looking at them both seriously. “I developed Daosaan as a defensive style, but it has immense potential to be a devastating offense, to be lethal and destructive instead of unifying and protective.”

“That’s very academic and I am sure the two of you find it _fascinating_ and all, but am I right in assuming you're going to teach _us_ this?” Padawan Ventress inquires, eyes gleaming.

“I thought you two would be good candidates,” he smiles faintly; a small, rather charming expression.

Depa can presume as to why – she and Asajj Ventress are both rather powerful in the Force; Depa’s understanding of Vaapad and Ventress’ mastery of Shii-Cho, as well as their advanced dexterity and control, make them promising students.

Depa considers his proposal however, recalling the violent whirling storm of glass pearls and blade heat that had surrounded him, and isn’t certain. “The level of containment this requires… I’m not sure it’s feasible for multiple combatants.”

“That’s because you can only see a single combatant replicated several times, and that is not how it’s meant to work.” Ventress almost snorts to see the red-haired knight so blatantly correct his senior. “When it’s just me, I carry a current of power around myself. If I were side by side with someone doing exactly the same thing – you’re right. It would never work. But that is not my intention. My intention, when we practice together, is that though there will be two or three of us, there is only a _single_ current of energy, passing between all of us, continuous and unbroken.”

Depa eyes him thoughtfully, but Ventress looks impatient to get started. The young Dathomiri woman is a warrior – she is _thrilled_ by the prospect, heedless of its difficulty.

“I am not convinced,” Depa remarks, looking him in the eye. “But I am intrigued, and I am willing to try.”

He offers her a coy smile, as if he expected no different. Depa feels challenged by that, but pleasantly so. She dips her chin at him.

“How do we start?” Padawan Ventress asks, grabbing her sabers from her belt.

Knight Kenobi smirks at her. _“Without_ those,” he drawls.

Ventress gives him the _most_ displeased look, and Depa presses down an amused smile.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Obi-Wan?”_

_“Obi-Wan?!”_

He blinks, and Satine is looking at him with arched brows and pursed lips, her arms crossed.

“Sorry,” he says softly, realizing he has been staring and not saying anything since the call connected. It’s been some time since he’d actually seen her. Her hair is loose, parted neatly and slicked down, that dark circlet resting on her brow that gives such weight to both her youth and her authority, contrasting sharply with her shining hair and silver-blue eyes. “You’re beautiful. I’ve missed you.”

Her cheeks tint, and she glances away. _“Stop that,”_ she mutters.

Obi-Wan grins. “How could I ever?”

She sends him a glare without heat and shakes her head, and his grin softens to a smile. _“I’ve missed you too. Seems we’ve both been rather busy,_ Knight _Kenobi. Congratulations.”_

“Don’t celebrate too much,” Obi-Wan remarks, “You should see the amount of paperwork they’ve sent me.” In addition to an endless stream of registration forms, authorization requests and legal agreements, he has a dozen appointments to set up with the various governmental offices to gain various stamps of approval under witness, new access codes to memorize, and somehow two of his certifications kept getting rejected due to some spelling inconsistency that he hasn’t been able to resolve yet.

Unlike most knights, he didn’t have all his temple documentation and personal information compiled in preparation. Which is what _happens_ when your master doesn’t notify various councils and archives – or you – so that such things can be drawn up leisurely in advance.

 _“You’re complaining to_ me _about paperwork?”_ The _Jorad’alor_ of the _entire_ Mandalorian Sector narrows her eyes, chin tilting up.

“Ah – I take it back. I wouldn’t dare,” Obi-Wan chuckles, “How are you doing? How’s Mandalore?”

She looks at him inscrutably for a moment, hesitating with something before her expression clears and she moves past it. Obi-Wan withholds a frown, wondering what _that_ was about.

_“We’re making progress. We’ve reached out to the Journeyman Protectors of Concord Dawn to help establish similar organizations on each of our populated worlds – we’ve displeased several prominent Clans and Houses in the process, but we’re never going to get anywhere if we don’t break up the power structures that made the war so intractable and difficult to resolve in the first place. If they didn’t want Mand’alor stepping on their toes, they should have done a better job in taking care of their people and their planets. We’re also considering tying the local Protectorates in with expanding the AgriCorps and MediCorps programs, but I have to work out the details of managing to do so without inciting outright rebellion from some of our more stubborn Mando’ade.”_

“I take it the jetiise still aren’t very popular, regardless of whose side of the war people were on,” Obi-Wan sighs, rubbing at his jaw.

 _“There have been assassination attempts,”_ Satine reports, _“Which irritate the farmers and earn some terrifyingly cold amusement from the healers. There is a special cohort of Mando’ade who have taken to personally protecting our jetiise and their retribution is usually swift, thorough, and probably more merciful than what Fett would do. They don’t seem bothered that the jetiise frown upon their activities.”_

“Dare I ask how that started?”

Satine smiles coyly and smirks a little. _“Well, it seems there was this small group of former Kyr’stad recruits that got liberated a few years ago by the Mand’alor and a pair of mando’jetiise. Not all of them have… settled well, back home, given what happened to them. So some have turned up to Bo-Katan looking for a little purpose and understanding.”_

 _“Bo-Katan_ set a guard on the _jetiise?”_ Obi-Wan blurts, “She _hates_ us.”

 _“Maybe she does, but Mandalorian honor is a complicated thing, Obi-Wan. You know that. Setting them free from Kyr’stad did more than save their lives, you saved their_ identity _, their spirit, likely their minds, for many of them.”_

He’s still… surprised. “It’s never boring among the _Mando’ade,_ I’ll say that,” he shakes his head.

Satine laughs. _“Are you suggesting it’s boring among the Jedi? I don’t believe you. You swan from one catastrophe to another and take absolute delight in unexpected complications and danger.”_

“That – that is preposterous. I will have you know that the Jedi would be quite happy to have quiet, utterly uncomplicated lives of study and dedication to the Force.”

He finishes that sentence with a straight face, but then they both end up laughing.

“We’re not _that_ bad. _Swanning from_ – honestly, Satine,” he defends, pushing his hair back from his face when several locks fall into his eyes.

 _“You are exactly that bad, Obi-Wan Kenobi,”_ she teases warmly, expression aloft, her hands twined together below her chin, which she rests primly atop them, _“I’ve missed you.”_

Obi-Wan looks her in the eyes and sighs softly, yearning bittersweet in his chest. The feeling is mutual.

 _“Though in your absence…”_ a light enters her gaze, one that makes him wary, _“I have found acceptable distraction in a most entertaining account of Jedi adventures that Padawan Jeisel sent-“_

“No, oh no, tell me she _didn’t,”_ Obi-Wan groans, covering his face with his hands, ears burning red.

 _“Have you seen the art for the cover?”_ Satine giggles, delighted with her mischief and his embarrassment.

His head whips up.

 _“_ There’s _art?!”_

~*~

Qui-Gon becomes aware that they have a guest when a startled yelp alerts him that his padawan is in distress.

Alarmed, he rushes out of his room to find –

Well.

“ – _look_ at this!” Knight Kenobi declares, outraged, pinning Sian to the floor and shoving a datapad in front of her eyes while she shrieks with giggles, trying to fend him off.

“Artistic license!”

“Sian! That is clearly _my_ face!”

“It’s not! It’s not!” she insists, trying to clap her hands over her mouth to stop laughing, “Totally made up character! I swear! Maybe a _little_ similar.”

“People are going to see this! People _already_ have! You sent it to my – to Satine!”

Sian finally manages to contain her mirth long enough to wrestle herself some leverage and throw him off. The redhead collapses where he lands on the floor, letting the datapad flop over his face as he groans in exaggerated mortal distress.

“And she _loved_ it,” Qui-Gon’s padawan retorts, poking Obi-Wan in the ribs and earning a swat and a glare from under the edge of the datapad.

“What’s this about then?” Qui-Gon inquires dryly, crossing his arms, assured that no one is in danger.

Sian offers him an innocent look. “Nothing.”

Qui-Gon raises a brow, and Knight Kenobi tucks the datapad protectively against his chest. Sian eyes the action, iridescent blue eyes gleaming, and then snatches the datapad from his protective clutches.

“You _have_ to agree with me that it’s really not _that much_ alike,” Sian wheedles, tossing it to her master before Obi-Wan can snatch it back, blue-grey eyes wide with alarm. Qui-Gon barely manages to catch it before it hits him in the chest, and offers the young woman a quelling look. She grins sweetly, or as sweetly as a young woman with very sharp maturing teeth can.

Qui-Gon looks at the datapad.

He nearly chokes.

The artistic novel cover shows a padawan crouched on the edge of a skyscraper rooftop at sunset, city lights glittering beneath with a darkening sky overhead, a master standing beside them, dark robes billowing in an apparent wind. Clad in pastel clothes with complicated patterns, both are chalk-pale, the elder with bright white hair and a beard with a strange geometric design, the younger whose hair, pulled up in a high tail with long fringe framing his face, was done in an opalescent sheen, eyes brightly chrome.

Clearly the design is near-human, perhaps Echani or some Rattataki hybrid.

Just as clearly, that is _absolutely_ the image of a fourteen-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi, and his unnervingly alike Jedi Master. Qui-Gon has heard the speculation of course – and their appearance upon return form their extended training sabbatical had it running _rampant_ – but he’d rather decided years ago that it would be best to treat such rumors as an annoying lack of discretion on the part of their peers.

 _“Sian,”_ Qui-Gon utters, embarrassed on the boy’s behalf.

“I told you!” Knight Kenobi bursts upright, flinging a hand in her direction, “Sian, how could you!”

 _“I_ didn’t draw it, I told Padme _she_ could,” Sian does not do a good job of sounding at all contrite, nor is there any subtlety in the grin she is _biting her lip to contain_ and failing to actually do so.

Knight Kenobi grabs the nearest floor cushion and makes a valiant effort to attempt to smother Qui-Gon’s cackling padawan as she wheezes out pleas for mercy.

“It’s for the good of the Order!” she shrieks, fending him off, feet kicking and nearly knocking over one of Qui-Gon’s fern stands, “All of the proceeds from the first one are going to the AgriCorps!”

Knight Kenobi hesitates.

“From the _first_ one?” his voice rises an octave.

Sian tugs on the cushion in his hands, pulling it beneath her chin. “The sequel is getting published next week. I’m already working on the third one. The publisher is very enthusiastic about the response!”

“Sian,” Knight Kenobi says flatly.

“Yes?”

“Where is the cover for the second one?” he asks, dangerously calm.

“Don’t worry, you’re – I mean, the padawan isn’t on it. It gets more into the grandfathers’ backstory, so he’s the focus.”

 _“Sian,”_ Kenobi warns.

She scoots away and fetches one of her datapads, pulling up the relevant image. Qui-Gon watches, as enthralled as watching a speeder wreck, as the young man looks it over and his face takes on the most contentiously pained expression possible.

“Why is he _shirtless?”_

Qui-Gon sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “Sian _Jeisel,”_ he utters. Force, did he have to worry about _Ben_ chasing after the girl in retribution?

“Where does Padme come up with this? She’s – she’s _thirteen!_ She’s a _Princess of Theed_ – how does she have the _time_ to be – “ the young knight just sputters whatever the end of that sentence was meant to be.

“Clearly you’ve never been a thirteen-year-old girl,” Sian rolls her eyes and plucks the datapad from his shocked fingers. She holds it up and waves it in front of his face. “Making dramatic holo-novella style art is a bonding activity for girls her age on Naboo and she says she finds it good stress relief from her work.”

“How is this the same girl who has poetry competitions with me and writes rants about the dubious ethics of legal technicalities? This is betrayal,” Knight Kenobi whines, slumping in defeat.

“Does this mean you’re not mad?” Sian bats her eyes, leaning over and wrapping her arms around her friend.

“I forgive you,” Obi-Wan eyes her narrowly, “for the good of the Order.”

Qui-Gon almost chuffs. He’s not sure the boy has a choice at this point _but_ to surrender.

“Excellent. Proceeds from the second one are for the MediCorps.”

The young man sighs, and then his expression pinches, “Exactly how much are these _making?”_

Sian grins wolfishly, “The first one was _very_ popular.”

Kenobi goes back to burying his face in his hands, and Sian bounces up, patting him on the shoulder on her way past to fetch some tea.

She has been back in the temple all of an hour, this girl.

Qui-Gon is terribly fond of her. Their quarters were… very quiet, in her absence.

With one exception.

“The egg hatched,” Qui-Gon states, earning Knight Kenobi’s attention, some of the conflicted embarrassment leaving the boy's face.

“Oh? How is it doing? Did you discover what it is?”

Qui-Gon holds up a hand and slips back into his room, where the incubator has taken residence on the shelf nearest his bed. He gently lifts the hatchling from its bed of sand and straw and fragile, wobbly limbs twitch, tiny pin-prick claws digging into his hands.

He cradles it carefully between his palms, trying to make sure it keeps as much heat as possible, and steps back out into the main room, where Knight Kenobi has put back the floor cushion, righted the fern stand Sian had nearly toppled, and politely relocated to the couch. Sian comes back with a tea tray and a plate of fresh butter cookies Qui-Gon had acquired in anticipation of her return.

She glances at him, a meaningful gratitude in her gaze for the simple thoughtfulness.

“A dwarf varactyl,” Qui-Gon inform them both, lowering himself onto the couch and revealing his tiny companion, whose pebbled skin was a vibrant blue, the pads of its feet a bright emerald green, stubby little pins along its neck where plumage would eventually come in, and stubby little awkward wings that would one day allow the reptile to glide, if not truly fly.

“And how likely is this one to poison me?” Sian coos, leaning across Knight Kenobi to observe.

“It’s not venomous,” Qui-Gon chuffs.

Sian gives the beak a cute, narrow look. “I bet it bites.”

Her friend snickers. “If it bites just bite back.”

Qui-Gon pulls the hatchling back to his chest. “Do _not,”_ he commands.

Sian laughs. “I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t,” she promises.

The hatchling nuzzles its beak into his hand, and Qui-Gon glances down to see one amber eye peeking open. Tiny limbs twitch, and then still, the varactyl just breathing with great focus, gaze fixed on him.

He stares back for a moment, idly fascinated.

Though it is probably soon to be hungry.

Qui-Gon looks up to find himself on the receiving end of two very amused looks.

“What?” he demands huffily.

“You can’t replace me with a lizard,” Sian says, “but I guess it _is_ pretty cute. It can stay.”

“I think they’re in agreeable hands,” Knight Kenobi adds, “Which is good, as I have to go.”

Qui-Gon is… warily confused, as the two friends share a look and come to some unspoken agreement, Sian walking her friend back to the door and sending him off with a quick but crushing hug that makes him wheeze and her snicker.

Qui-Gon shakes his head.

_Teenagers._

The little varactyl yawns widely, tail twitching, sighing as if to agree, and Qui-Gon is quite content with that.


	5. Chapter 5

A chirping alert drags him slowly and reluctantly from deep sleep,  the same as Fay, who is making displeased little grumbles into the crook of his neck, sprawled over him as she is.

_ “Why _ do you have an alarm going off?” she mutters, displeased and showing no inclination to move. To be fair, Ben isn’t exactly thrilled either. Peaceful sleep is a luxury he isn’t often awarded.

“I’m supposed to meet Qui-Gon,” he sighs, pulling one hand free of her hair, which slips through his fingers like silk, and summoning his vambrace with the Force so he can silence the offending alarm. He’d been puzzled at the  _ hour _ Qui-Gon had requested, but… he was willing to oblige.

Fay makes an inquisitive sound and draws her head up, peering at him. “As your lover,  _ dear,  _ should I be concerned that you’re having strange meetings in the middle of the night?”

Ben snorts and shifts, pushing up a little and pulling her forward for a kiss. She grins against his mouth before kissing back, teasing at his lower lip before giving a soft sigh. “I suppose I should let you go,” she murmurs. “You might do him some good. He’s improving but… it has been a struggle, one that is far from over.”

“That was only to be expected,” Ben says, drawing the covers up to wrap around Fay before he slides out from beneath her and sits up on the edge of the bed. She curls into the warm spot he left behind, head propped up on one hand, covers drawn under her chin, gaze sympathetic.

Ben dresses in his pants and undershirt and decides the rest is too much of a bother. He grabs his boots and his belt and leans over the bed once more to press his brow gently to Fay’s. Her lips twitch a little, as it always takes her a second to sense the difference between this and his leaning in for a kiss, and he can sense that she finds the gesture of Mandalorian affection endearing.

“Don’t wait up,” he says softly.

“As if,” she teases, sinking against the pillow, “Try not to wake me when you get back.”

Ben chuckles and departs.

~*~

_ |Obi-Wan.| _

_ |Obi-Wan!| _

_ |Obi-Wan, pick up your kriffing comm!| _

He reads the holotext blearily, and the next time it goes off, he answers.  _ “What?” _

_ “Do you hear this? Do you  _ hear _ this?” _

“Hear wha–“

A strange, coarse little wail, somewhere between the rattle of a damaged motor and the nerve-shredding squeak of a wedged door.

“What  _ is _ that?”

_ “That is the little monster you gave Master Qui-Gon. It won’t stop crying!” _

“Can’t he take care of that?” Obi-Wan complains, wondering why she has to wake  _ him _ up to complain.

_ “He isn’t here. He goes out at night,” _ Sian grumbles.

Obi-Wan, idly aware that his own master had only half-heartedly attempted to sleep in his own room before leaving their quarters, gives a drawn sigh. “He’s not the only one,” he mutters.

_ “Masters are worse than younglings,” _ Sian mutters,  _ “What do I do? It misses him.” _

“Can’t you go find him?” Obi-Wan asks tiredly.

_ “I don’t think my master would  _ be sneaking out in the middle of the night _ if he wanted me aware of what he was up to, Obi-Wan,” _ Sian retorts, a rolling of her eyes evident in her tone,  _ “It’s better for us both if I just pretend to be oblivious to certain things.” _

Okay, Obi-Wan… kind of understands that. It’s not like he’s never been in exactly the same pod with his own master.

Obi-Wan grumbles a sigh, “Then you’re going to have to take care of it. Just... go comfort it, or something.”

_ “Ugh.” _

“Sian!” Obi-Wan laughs, “It’s a tiny innocent creature in distress.”

_ “Yeah, but it puked on me earlier and I’m still not convinced that this one won’t be as offended by my existence as all the rest of his pathetic lifeforms.” _

“Sian, it’s  _ crying. _ Maybe, if you bond with it while it is still little and defenseless, it won’t turn on you later,” Obi-Wan argues.

_ “Hmm… I can see the merit in that idea. I’ll try it – but if I come to some mysterious end, it was all your fault, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I want you to know that.” _

“Good  _ night, _ Sian.”

_ “It is _ not,” she grumbles, before hanging up.

~*~

“Ben,” Qui-Gon greets him as he steps into the salle.

“Qui-Gon,” Ben returns, and then pauses. To the first, Qui-Gon’s hair is up in a tail. To the second, it’s also undoubtedly shorter than Ben has ever seen it. “Ah…”

“What?”

“Nothing. Might I ask why the middle of the night?” Ben inquires, stepping fully into the salle and letting the door closed. Qui-Gon eyes his attire and scoffs lightly, shaking his head. Ben is supremely unbothered. If Qui-Gon wants him dressed decently, Qui-Gon can summon him at a decent hour.

The older man's expression pinches faintly, shame wafting off him. Ben discreetly calls on the Force, hoping to soothe the sour emotion away.

“No matter,” Ben waves the subject away, “I assume by the location you were asking for more than a chat?”

“I’ve been… practicing,” Qui-Gon says stiffly. “In spite of…” he trails off, leaving it there.

“That’s good to hear. I’m…” Ben pauses, “I’m glad to see you haven’t let this beat you, Qui-Gon. It would be a shame to lose a great Jedi.”

Qui-Gon scoffs bitterly at the words, and Ben is taken aback. The red-head frowns. “A Jedi is defined by more than their ability to wield the Force, Master Jinn. A Jedi is defined by their choices, by their actions, and the good they put into the galaxy. You – you know that as well as anyone.”  _ You taught me that, _ he almost said.

“It’s not that,” Qui-Gon waves off the lecture.

“Then what is it that’s so offended you?”

“A great Jedi, you said,”

“Yes?”

Qui-Gon shakes his head. “It’s nothing, nevermind.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing,” Ben presses, irritated at this in a way that is intimately familiar. He spent years, after all, butting up against Qui-Gon’s stubbornness and atrocious penchant for dismissiveness. He crosses his arms and frowns at the other Jedi master, earning a piercing and troubled look in return.

“Qui-Gon,” Ben sighs, “Please.”

The other man shifts uncomfortably, brow tensing further, but doesn’t look away. “You consider me a great Jedi?” he asks quietly, tone terse with underlying conflict.

“I do,” Ben agrees unequivocally. He has never seen eye to eye with the way Qui-Gon Jinn does things, with his conduct or his loose appreciation for the edicts of the council, but he has never once doubted that Qui-Gon Jinn served faithfully nor that he served as a Jedi knight with distinction. He succeeded in the trickiest of missions and most intractable of negotiations, often where others had not. There was a reason Ben’s apprenticeship had been so harrowing, aside from the emotional challenges between him and his master – their missions had always been of a more difficult nature. Qui-Gon’s methods were… unorthodox, but they were never reckless nor unnecessary, and they served him well.

“How about a good man?” Qui-Gon demands flatly.

Ben hesitates.

Qui-Gon looks away, jaw grinding angrily. “I see,” he utters, tone scathingly sharp, before Ben has even finished processing the query –

“Now hold on!” Ben snaps out, angered himself, “Don’t you judge me for that, Qui-Gon Jinn –”

“Judge  _ you?” _ Qui-Gon’s brows rise.

“What reaction did you expect when you tossed out a question like that?” Ben demands, “I don’t even know what this is about!”

He’s raising his voice, damn it all and Qui-Gon specifically, but he has actually provoked Ben into  _ raising his voice. _

“Isn’t it obvious?” Qui-Gon’s rises in turn, and oh, yes, this is all too familiar from Ben’s padawan days.

“Is  _ what?” _ Ben snaps back, “I don’t know what you expected me to say, Qui-Gon.  _ Yes? _ You’re insufferable! You’re irritable and contrary and show an utter disregard for anything or anyone who might inconvenience the great Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and you have yet – you have  _ yet _ to offer a single unconditional apology to any of the people who deserve it, and Force forbid they not only deserve it but they’ve also offered you the great insult of giving a damn about you in spite of that fact!”

“You think it is so  _ simple –” _

“I don’t think it’s that fucking complicated, Qui-Gon!”

_ “Language,” _ Qui-Gon barks, bearing a cutting resemblance to his own master in the moment.

_ “Really?!” _ Ben can’t believe – he cannot believe – right  _ now, _ of all –  _ “Fine,” _ he draws himself up, tamps down on his broiling temper and offers his friend and once-master a sharp look, “You want my opinion, Qui-Gon? I  _ would _ hesitate to call you a good man. But that doesn’t make you a bad one, and in spite of the great challenges you present, I  _ do _ care for you. The real truth is – I would hesitate to call  _ either of us _ good men. That doesn’t mean we can’t do  _ better.” _

They glare at each other for a moment, and Ben rubs his throat. “Damn you for making me shout.”

“I did no such –” Ben cuts him off with a sharp look, and Qui-Gon’s lips pinch firmly.

Ben takes a deep breath to calm the heated tension in his chest, closing his eyes and focusing on control and releasing his anger.

After a minute or so, Qui-Gon awkwardly clears his throat. “I suppose we should call it a close for the night –”

Ben opens his eyes, offering Qui-Gon a narrow look. “Now that I’m properly awake? I don’t think so.”

Qui-Gon looks like he has regrets.

But, being Qui-Gon Jinn, he also looks as though that’s not enough to make him back down.

~*~

Fay cannot help the age-old instinct that wakes her when Ben slips back into her quarters, and she smiles against her pillow when the bed dips under his weight, and she can hear him tug off his boots and set them aside, followed by his shirt.

He leans over and kisses her shoulder, and she hums.

Then he slides under the covers and sticks his  _ cold _ kriffing fingers against her toasty warm, sensitive belly and she shoves him right off the bed with  _ Force. _

“Ow!” he yelps.

“You deserved that, you incorrigible human being,” Fay glowers at him from her cocoon of blankets, tucking them more protectively around herself, “What were you thinking?”

“That a beautiful, compassionate woman would take pity on me?” he pleads sweetly, smiling  _ so _ charmingly.

Fay sniffs and rolls over. “You are  _ not _ pitiable,” she declares.

He pulls himself back up on the bed and scoops her – blankets and all – into his embrace. “Oh?” he queries, in a light, teasing tone that sends a delightful little shiver down her spine. His lips brush her neck. “Then what am I?” he murmurs.

Fay turns her head to glance at him through her lashes, one brow lifting. “A man about to get himself kicked out of bed again if he doesn’t settle down.”

He huffs, dropping his weight against her. “I’ll behave,” he sighs ruefully, beard tickling her neck.

“I don’t believe you,” Fay retorts, letting her eyes fall close, content with the feel of his arms around her, his presence in the Force a basking glow against her own. 


	6. Chapter 6

“Master Naasade.”

Ben would admit, under duress, that a small tremor runs down his spine when Master Gallia’s cool, unyielding tones call him out.

He takes a half breath, draws a polite smile to his face, and turns about.

Her expression is calm and implacable, and Ben resists the urge to twitch. “Master Gallia,” he greets in turn, awaiting a scolding.

An odd light enters her violet gaze, and she seems quite content to leave him in suspense as she walks up to join him and he has no choice but to match her stride. “I hope your last assignment went well.”

“It did,” she replies, “Siri and Sian performed quite well together. I think the local governors cried themselves to sleep after the two of them were through with negotiations.”

Siri Tachi and Sian Jeisel, under Adi Gallia’s watchful eye… Yes, Ben would imagine there were tears.

“And yours?” Master Gallia inquires in turn, reservedly polite.

Ben hesitates.

She has – she  _ has _ heard, hasn’t she?

She glances aside at him, waiting. “I’m awaiting verification or denunciation of rumors, Master Naasade. It’s very difficult to discern truth from fiction around you.  _ Has _ Obi-Wan been promoted?”

Ben’s smile tightens a little. “He has been,” he confesses a touch cautiously.

She nods, a small, content gesture.

“Then allow me,” she says, and Ben’s stomach tenses reflexively, “to congratulate you on raising a fine young Jedi Knight. He is a credit to the Order, and your teachings have served him well.”

“Er…” she’s managed to catch him off guard. That is not what he was expecting  _ at all. _

“And allow me furthermore, Ben, to apologize for my previous behavior and assumption in regards to your bond with your padawan learner,” the tholothian Jedi master sighs quietly through her nose and speaks with clarity, “I did you both a disservice.”

“You meant well,” Ben replies earnestly, shaking his head a little. This was all long past, was it not?

“Still,” Adi replies somberly, looking him in the eye, “I apologize.”

“It’s forgiven, Adi,” Ben replies, smiling more genuinely, “and thank you.”

She dips her head, and they continue walking in a much more companionable silence.

~*~

“Oh.”

Obi-Wan has settled outside for a few minutes, enjoying the mild sunshine of Coruscant and the rustle of a breeze through the branches of the great woosha tree in the middle of the courtyard.

He reads the missive again and then stares blankly aside for several minutes.

_ |Reminder: Knight Kenobi, please submit a preference request for a single or suite of room(s) so that appropriate accommodations may be allocated. – Quartermaster's Department| _

Right.

Knighthood.

Promotion.

Independence.

Meant moving out of his master’s quarters and into his own.

“Well, that’s a  _ look.” _

Obi-Wan glances up. “Hey, Que,” he nods at the kiffar lounging in the shadow of the tree, wrapped up in a colorful poncho with his dreadlock braids pulled back, and then looks back down at the missive, troubled by the twinging reluctance it inspires.

There is a beat of silence, then it registers.

“Quinlan!” Obi-Wan surges to his feet and nearly tackles the older knight, throwing his arms around him and squeezing.

“Kriff, Obi –  _ armor!” _ Quinlan yelps, and Obi-Wan loosens his grip just a little. Quinlan loops an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulder and peels him back to one side so he can march them both back to the bench, leaning his weight on his shorter companion. “You’re all freckly, it’s cute. Where’d you go?”

“Where’d  _ I _ go? Que, where have  _ you _ been?” Obi-Wan realizes, the moment he asks, that Quinlan likely  _ can’t _ tell him. Shadow work, and all.

Still, it’s been two years.

“Oh, you know, here, there, Jedha,” Quinlan grins, teeth bright against his brown face. He jostles the red-head with an elbow.

“Jedha?”

“Yeah,” is all Quinlan says, and Obi-Wan really looks his friend over. Quinlan catches his eye, and Obi-Wan’s got half his weight leaning on him, but the kiffar still seems as if he might just slip away and disappear with nothing but a flash of a smile.

Obi-Wan has gotten used to the quiet down the other edge of the bond between them, the elusive fade of great distance. He doesn’t like feeling it when Quinlan is right beside him. He nudges the kiffar. “Hey, you’re home, right?”

Quinlan huffs out a strange little breath and looks back at him. Some of the tension eases out of the older knight, and he slouches over, sprawling on Obi-Wan lazily.

The distance in his mind melts away. Quinlan is still more of a teasing suggestion than a firm presence in the Force, but he is  _ there. _ “Yeah, I’m home,” Quinlan nods.

Then he claps Obi-Wan on the shoulder, wincing only a little because Obi-Wan’s shoulder was clad in  _ beskar, _ “and I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“A favor?”

“A  _ big _ favor.”

~*~

“You are being  _ weird,” _ Siri accuses, a skeptic look on her face as she watches him critically, seated on the other side of the table in her and her master’s quarters.

Obi-Wan smiles lightly. “Just bear with me, please, Siri.”

She’s changed a lot, in the time he’s been away. She’s still rather short, but now her pale blonde hair is pulled up in a long tail, her braid trailing down the side of her neck, and her figure is finally outgrowing the scrawniness of her youth. More than that, however, is that Siri has always been sharp edged and prickly, but there is a reserve in her demeanor now, in her bearing, a sense of caution and deliberation that echoes her master’s and turns her sharpness into something far less reactive and far more dangerous for it.

She’s not  _ completely _ outgrown the fact that she is an opinionated hothead, though. Siri Tachi will always be Siri Tachi.

Obi-Wan lifts the decorative box he’s been carrying and sets it on the table in front of her, it’s made of a pale wood, with flowers painted on the panel in colored inks, the carved details ornate and delicate. It’s utterly the kind of fussily fancy thing Siri would never admit to adoring.

Siri crosses her arms, fingers twitching and then curling in as she contains herself.

“This is an apology,” Obi-Wan states, “One you do not have to accept, but one that I, as your friend, hope you do.”

Siri eyes him critically. “This isn’t  _ from _ you?”

“No,” Obi-Wan replies simply, wondering if he’s done something Siri thinks he  _ ought _ to apologize for, “Please, open it.”

Siri stares at it for another minute, brow pinched as she thinks it over. Eventually, she unfolds her arms and lifts the lid back.

Obi-Wan waits. His role in this is only to be the bearer, and the witness. If Siri rejects the apology, she need not be bothered by having to see Quinlan. In kiffar culture, it would then be Quinlan’s responsibility to recuse himself from her social circle for a period of time determined by the severity of the offence, but that was less feasible in their situation. He would just keep his distance as best could be managed without forcing a divide between the rest of their friends.

Siri’s expression is unreadable as she pulls out first a simple but elegant calligraphy set of white jade, and then a crystal blue scarf, a near perfect match for the color of her eyes, and then a small clay pot with a single band of yellow around it that Siri puzzles over before opening, revealing the dried contents of  _ afke _ within.

She sniffs it and then abruptly sets it down, making a clatter on the table.

“This is from  _ Quinlan Vos?” _

Obi-Wan tries not to wince at the way she says his name.

“How long have you two been in contact?” Siri accuses.

Obi-Wan breathes in and leans back. “Quinlan has been on Shadow Assignment for the last two years. He’s only just returned.”

Siri’s cheeks are reddening, and her grip on the little clay pot alarmingly tight. He worries it might break and cut her fingers. She breathes in deep, glaring at a point just beyond Obi-Wan’s ear.

“Shadow Assignment?” she repeats, with the same hard toned implication that makes Adi Gallia so intimidating in her displeasure, “Do you know how he treated me?”

“Considering he’s Quinlan and this is an uncharacteristically serious and  _ formal _ ritual of apology?” Obi-Wan acknowledges, “I know you two parted badly, Siri. I won’t ask for the details.”

“You want me to forgive him.”

“You’re both very dear to me,” Obi-Wan states simply, “but you don’t have to, Siri.”

“But I’d be a terrible person if I didn’t,” she pushes the gifts away and crosses her arms again. “This isn’t fair.”

“This is… you know this isn’t, you know, an over and done with apology, right?” Obi-Wan inquires.

She glances at him, crystal blue eyes narrowed. “What?”

“This is a gesture of apology. If you accept it, it means you’re  _ willing _ to forgive him, not that you  _ have,” _ Obi-Wan explains, “If you refuse it, it’s a sort of… relationship exile, and he’s supposed to honor the fact that you don’t want him around. If you accept, it means he’s being allowed the opportunity to make an effort to regain your friendship.”

Siri glares – not at him, he thinks, but at her emotional conundrum which happens to represent itself in his general direction.

“He’s very serious about this, Siri,” Obi-Wan pleads gently, “and it’s  _ Quinlan.” _

Siri looks away and draws in a deep breath, sighing out. “Fine,” she snaps.

“Are you sure?” Obi-Wan says.

Siri flashes him a heated look. “I said so, didn’t I? Besides, I want to shout at him, and I can’t do that if he won’t show his face.”

_ That’s Siri, _ Obi-Wan thinks.

He’s relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: All, I have not had a day off work in over a month and as much as this is my stress relief and joy, my brain is just.... tired. Updates are likely gonna be less frequent for a bit.


	7. Chapter 7

“Hmm. Much time, it has been, Knight Skywalker,” Master Yoda warbles quietly, as Shmi accepts the invitation to join him at a moss-rich little pond in the gardens. She has handed in the reports compiled  by the crèche’s fledgling council, which serves double duty as the council of the Temple of Chimes. She also conveyed the less formal remarks and opinions of her colleagues as well as reported her own personal observations of the temple’s progress, as requested.

Additionally, she submitted her request to resign from her all but defunct seat on the Council of Reassignment, and to return to field work.

“It has been,” Shmi replies respectfully, observing the way age hangs on the lines of the elder’s face. These have been a harrowing few years for them all, and Master Yoda is not exempt from that. But there is also a perk in the tilt of his ears, and his eyes seem less tired than she has seen them before. She is glad of it.

“Your children, how fare they?”

He can be quite direct when he wishes to be.

The decision to return to the field is not one that comes easy to her. How can it, when stepping up to serve the galaxy means stepping away from Anakin and Jax and Omi? Means entrusting their care and raising to others, means accepting that she may be far from them for long periods of time, that she may even die, having left them to serve as a Jedi?

Had fate been less kind, Shmi would have no choice now in whether she and her children stay together or apart at all – a slave’s agency rarely allows for such dilemmas. But fate had been merciful. Fate had introduced her to Ben Naasade, and Ben Naasade gathered her up and brought her to freedom. And freedom means she has choices. And having choices means she has to live with the consequences of making them.

It isn’t always easy.

In many cases, it is in fact terrifying, and a scared, shameful, beaten part of her sometimes wishes that others make her choice for her. But that is the voice Depur has left in the scars on her soul. That is not  _ her. _

Choosing to join the path of a Jedi had been a wonderful and terrifying choice, the first truly big decision she made as a free person. Refusing to turn Anakin over to the crèche when she became a padawan had been another. In spite of all pressure to do so, she had not been ready, and she had feared terribly that Anakin would not understand that she was not abandoning him – and she wasn’t. She never would abandon her children. Whether any or all of them became Jedi or chose other paths, they were still  _ hers. _ Gathering the courage and confidence to kiss Tholme that first time had been the third.

This is another powerful choice. Omi is still very young, for all that  she is growing so very quickly. Anakin and Ji-Kest are rapidly nearing the threshold of having to make their own big choices in regards to the path their lives are to take.

It would be easier to stay.

Safer.

And Shmi feels a terrible conflict about whether or not she chooses wisely, or out of fear. She is so tired of fear, and it clings to her bones and lingers and it always will, and it  _ angers _ her.

“They are healthy,” Shmi replies. “They are happy, and they are free.”  Everything she ever prayed for, for any children she might have. Every dream she ever clung to with fierce desperation brought to life. Every hope she ever dared to have answered.

It’s difficult to believe, to accept, at times. There are days when she stops, for just a moment, to see what she has before her – Anakin and Ji-Kest chasing each other through drifts of snow; Omi, shoving handfuls of dirt down her tunic as she terrorizes the poor plants in the solarium; Tholme, quietly combing their daughter’s hair out as if it is the most serious and reverent task he has ever been assigned; Shaak Ti sending her boxes of live beetles and Obi-Wan eyeing them in her cupboards with skepticism; Ben clasping his hands over hers with that earnest, humble smile of his that makes him seem like a boy and not like the scarred man that he is; her friends Dahvo and Se’sanimma bickering over the technical differences between smuggling and direct-access trading in regards to obtaining certain supplies; having amicable, casual and equal conversations with the likes of kings and queens –

There is  _ so much _ to her life now, and sometimes it is too real, that this  _ is _ her life, and she has to press back tears from the sheer reverence and relief that tries to burst from her chest.

“Good, that is,” Yoda nods sagely, watching the thoughts dance behind her eyes with a patience Shmi wishes more people had.

“Yes,” Shmi agrees, with gratitude, “It is good.”

Yoda hums thoughtfully.

“Know, do you, the history of Jedi families?” Yoda inquires. Shmi looks him over with surprise.

“Only as they were referenced in Obi-Wan’s report,” Shmi replies. “They became taboo for fear of attachments, and for fear of creating Jedi dynasties.”

Jedi believe in the merits of an individual, in what they accomplish for themselves, what they devote themselves to in study and action – not what they are born from or into, not what they can not control. A Jedi’s greatest legacy is their lineage, the progression from learner to teacher and the continuance of a shared focus and understanding, but even that is not so strict as most inheritance practices among the grand plethora of cultures in the galaxy. Adherence to the values of one's lineage is more a private sense of accomplishment, tradition, and identity than an overt bias among the Order.

“For many reasons, fall out of favor, did the concept,” Yoda says. “For good or poor reasons, hm? Fear, yes. Fear was a reason. Not irrational, was that fear. Love, devotion, attachment – evil, they are not. But dangerous? Yes. Dangerous to a Jedi, most particularly. A hard demand, you see it, to abstain from traditional family bonds – critical, you are. A criticism, this is not,” Yoda peers at her, and Shmi looks back calmly. She does not take offense. “A kindness, it was too. Easier, our choices can be, when love so passionately and devotedly, we do not, hm? Difficult, very difficult, your choices are, young Skywalker.”

A kindness.

She can understand that now.

It  _ would _ be easier, she thinks.

Even knowing her children will be well cared for and protected, that they will want for neither comfort nor enrichment, the idea of leaving them still tears at her chest, at her heart, brutal and burning.

There is a careful maneuvering in the cultural practices of the Jedi designed to shelter them from such terrible heart-wrenching dilemmas as this. They don’t love any less, they don’t  _ feel _ any less, but they structure their lives in such a way that it is easier, it is safer, emotionally and spiritually, to do what they are meant to do. Their young are  _ meant _ to be raised collectively, to be succored in the crèche until they are old enough and bold enough to venture out into the galaxy, their adolescents are  _ meant _ to learn from them and then move beyond them, meant to find an independent path from their very first to their very last. They are not left wanting for companionship, for family, for community – they just don’t center such things as the rest of the galaxy does. Such restraint and discipline had seemed at first stifling, but Shmi has come to appreciate the  _ peace _ it offers too, the absolution of understanding that this way of life was  _ different, _ perhaps jarringly so, but that did not make it  _ wrong. _

“This one is so difficult because I make it so, I think,” Shmi says.

“Worried, you are. Hurt your children, you fear this may. Much conflict, I sense,” his ears droop slightly, and then the wizened elder reaches over, laying stubby claws gently against her knee. “Give much to others, you do. Give to yourself, do you also?”

“Are you recommending to me that I be selfish?”

“Selfish, is it, to answer to your own spirit?” his ears tilt up, his expression imperious. Shmi can’t help a fleeting smile, glancing away from him and into the calm waters of the pond.

“I feel selfish. I feel desperate,” Shmi confesses, “I want more of the galaxy, of myself. I want to be out there, I want to give others the hope that was given to me. I fear going and I fear not going.”

_ There are a thousand upon a thousand ways to be enslaved, _ Shmi knows.  _ Including the ways you enslave yourself. _

“Hmm,” he grumbles, and Shmi looks back to him. “False, that is.”

Shmi frowns. Deeply. “I did not lie –”

“Relieved to go, you would be. Relieved to not go, you would be. Fear these things, you do not. Fear choosing, you do. An ultimatum, is this? Insurmountable and unbalanced, are your options? A destination, reached by a single step, is not. Change your mind, you may. Today, tomorrow, in a ten-day. Free to do so, you are.”

Shmi swallows.  This is a dangerous time to be a Jedi, that is certain. But is it so dangerous?

No, is serving  _ so much more _ dangerous than to stay at the crèche? She fears going out into the galaxy and never coming back. Not for her own sake, but for her children.

She has had this argument with herself a hundred times, and she has already decided – she wants to go. She wants to serve, and see the galaxy, and she has goals she hopes yet to achieve, goals she will never reach if she does not strive for them.

She has already weighed her options, and she has already decided. All she had yet to receive was permission. Her hopes built up in her throat, making it hard to breathe.

“Accept your request, the council has, Knight Skywalker,” Master Yoda informs her gently.

Her stomach clenches, but a thrill races up her spine. He was right, of course - she is relieved. She is even a little giddy, now that the indecision is over, now that she can no longer tell herself that it is still uncertain, that it is out of her hands.

_ I am free to go. I am free to stay. I am free to change my mind. _

“Hm. Resolved, feel you now? Pleased with what has been decided?”

“I am,” Shmi nods, accepting her feelings, accepting that her choice has been made, that the consequences will be what they will be. “Thank you, elder.”

“Hmph,” he grumbles. “Need every Jedi, we do. Foolish to refuse you, we would be.”

“Not for permission,” Shmi snorts softly, laying her hand over his with care. “For helping me see my feelings clearly.”

He blinks slowly, looking down at their hands. “Alone, you are not,” he says simply, the grandest reassurance Shmi could be offered.

“Alone, I am not,” she repeats relieved.


	8. Chapter 8

Ben is returning from a rather pleasant session with Healer Kala (who is rather pleased with his recent progress and current improved health) and  enters his quarters only to walk into a wave of such melancholy that he almost steps back in surprise.

“Obi-Wan?” he questions, moving forward to see Obi-Wan uncharacteristically slumped over the edge of the table in their quarters, head pillowed on his arms as he stares at the room. His sandy-red hair is askew, no doubt ruffled by restless fingers, pulling loose from the tie in the back. The teenager glances at him, pulling himself upright with a faint, embarrassed reddening of his ears. Ben frowns in concern at the smudges under his eyes – his padawan; no, his former padawan, hasn’t been sleeping well.

“I received my new quarters assignment,” Obi-Wan explains with evident reluctance.

Ben takes pause.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Of course. Obi-Wan was a knight now – of course he would be assigned his own quarters.

“Oh,” Ben replies blankly.

Obi-Wan gives him a look and snorts. “Yeah,  _ oh.” _

The two of them are too alike at times. Ben smiles ruefully and moves to place his hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and give it a squeeze. “A single or a suite?” he inquires, stepping away again to start a pot of tea.

“A suite. I figured I wouldn’t want to move again in a couple of years, and I’d rather – I’d rather my padawan stay with me, as opposed to in dorms. Like we did.”

Ben can’t help the small smirk at that, even if nostalgia and wist tug sharply in his chest. Obi-Wan’s padawan –  _ Anakin, _ obviously. Perhaps Jax as well, if the council could be convinced to bend the first padawans rule.

“It’s not even that far – they’ve given me a suite just three corridors aside from here,” Obi-Wan’s mouth quirks, is gaze catching Ben’s. “It’s just…” he looks around, at their plants, and their colorful collection of beaded pillows started by Anakin, and the familiar walls, imbued with their presences and the faint but ever-present scent of spices and tea. “I still remember shoving both our beds into that room so we could accommodate Shmi and Anakin –“

“ – which put you close enough to steal my blankets, if I recall correctly.”

“You gave that comforter to me and I am keeping it,” Obi-Wan retorts, and Ben scoffs as he pours tea into two cups – mismatched, brightly colored ceramics. Obi-Wan takes his with a nod of thanks when Ben walks back out to him, and his smile fades.

“This is  _ home," _ the young man sighs out, with feeling.

Ben hums and settles down next to his young knight, brushing their shoulders together and looking aside at him with due consideration. “It isn’t going anywhere, Obi-Wan. As long as I am here this will still be a home to you and one you are welcome to. But you can build more than one, you know.”

“I know, I just…” his brow furrows, as he sighs again, looking around like the answer is in the walls somewhere.

“You feel like you’re losing something?” Ben guesses accurately, watching Obi-Wan worry at his lip. “You aren’t. You don’t lose something just because you walk away from it. It’s not that easy to leave things behind. Not when we carry them here,” he taps Obi-Wan’s chest, and then his temple, earning a flick of the young man's head as he twitches, “wherever we go. Even the things we can never go back to. I think this just caught you off-guard.”

Obi-Wan meets his gaze, blue-grey to blue-grey, shadowed with sympathy and internal conflict. Slowly, the young man nods, leaning a little more heavily into Ben as he looks away and sips at his tea.

“Most padawans consider it a joyous thing, you know, to move out of their master’s rooms,” Ben nudges him.

“I  _ like _ living with you,” Obi-Wan mutters. “Though I suppose Quinlan feels that way, if only because having his own quarters means he doesn’t risk seeing things he shouldn’t when he touches anything.”

“I never envied Tholme that particular hazard,” Ben mutters, huffing a laugh under his breath. Tholme and his padawan, however, had chosen to live together regardless. It was either great care or great caution on Tholme’s part – it was certainly easier to keep an eye on your troublemaker when they lived under your roof. Ben had learned that from experience.

“Well, Obi-Wan, I suggest inviting your friends over to celebrate. Maybe they can help you decorate.”

Obi-Wan gives him a look. “I’m not sure I  _ trust _ my friends to help me decorate, but…” the young man considers it, “that  _ does _ sound fun.”

The younger Jedi sips his tea and then sighs again. “I suppose it isn’t very knightly of me to whine about moving out.”

“You’re allowed to feel trepidation about changes in your life, Obi-Wan,” Ben says with good humor. “Even positive ones. It’s perfectly natural.”

To be honest, Ben isn’t surprised Obi-Wan is a little taken aback by the transition – barring the trip home, they’ve been living together in isolation for the better part of a year. Even Ben had found himself a little anxious of the separation on their trip home.

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and nods, exuding appreciation for the understanding, and feeling comforted by it. He looks down at his cup and toys with it. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Ben inquires.

“Are you going to be alright? Here alone?” Obi-Wan looks at him sincerely.

“I…” Ben is… better than he was post Mandalore, but it's true that too long alone in a closed space still unsettles him. It was something he had to test, of himself, on his journey home from Tatooine. Obi-Wan’s near presence always eased the quiet fear that sometimes scratched around the edges of his thoughts, but just as Obi-Wan has to learn to be without his master, Ben has to learn how to be without his padawan. “You have no doubt noticed that I spend some of my nights… elsewhere.”

“With Fay,” Obi-Wan corrects bluntly. “I’m not a tweenling with delicate sensibilities, Ben. You can admit you spend the night with Master Fay.”

Ben feels his ears redden a little, wishing Obi-Wan could have said that in a manner a  _ little _ less insufferably suggestive. “Right, yes, well. I can manage perfectly well, and when I can’t, I have those I can go to. Part of growing up, Obi-Wan, of moving on, is getting to live your life without anchoring it to mine and constantly being subject to my supervision.”

“Don’t tell me not to worry about you,” the young knight grumbles.

“I’m not that oblivious,” Ben retorts. “Just… let yourself focus more on  _ yourself. _ You’ll have a padawan soon enough, and after that believe me, you will be begging for a moment of peace and privacy for self-reflection, and rarely will you receive it.”

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh. “I suppose there is that,” he remarks.

~*~

It is by sheer dumb luck or divine intervention that this just so happens to be one of the few times all of his close friends are in temple at the same time.

Obi-Wan makes the mistake of simply sending out a quick notice to them that he is moving quarters the next day and they are free to stop by should they so please. It must have slipped his mind what kind of people his friends are.

Obi-Wan spends the evening packing his simple belongings and spends one last night in Ben’s quarters. They have a full Mandalorian supper, complete with a mug of black beer and sweet-cakes for dessert, and Ben helps him move over in the morning.

By which Obi-Wan means that he carries all of his things, and Ben makes sure he takes several of the potted red ferns and one of the white-leafed trees with him by courteously carrying them for him.

It’s easier to find his new door than expected – someone has already done up a sigil on the face of it, and it’s unmistakable. It is the sigil of the  _ Mando’jetiise, _ the mythosaur skull combined with the winged blade – but this one is also ringed in flowers – in Mandalorian lilies, all done in deep jade green.

Obi-Wan stops in front of it and stares in surprise, while Ben hums appreciatively. At least until he punches in access and finds the door unlocked – of course, Obi-Wan hasn’t programmed it yet. Obi-Wan shakes out of his stupor and steps inside.

The layout is flipped from Ben’s quarters – the U-shaped kitchenette is on his left once he comes past the small entryway, and it looks like the bedrooms, separated by the refresher, create an L-shape along his right. There is an actual breakfast nook on the other side of the kitchen, and an oval shaped lounge fills out the remaining space between that and the bedrooms. The windows on the curved back wall are higher placed and shorter than normal, giving a sequestered feel to the floor space, but sending light absolutely cascading off the ceiling.

Because the ceiling was an abstract mosaic of shimmering glass, all whirling shades of blue and green and gold, vibrant in contrast against the white walls and the grey floor.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan breathes, head tilted up.

Ben lets out a sharp, surprised bark of sound and Obi-Wan turns to see his former master with a hand clapped over his mouth, looking at something on the wall to his right. Obi-Wan steps around the corner and his mouth drops.

Hanging there, professionally framed, where a series of posters around the door to what he assumed was the ‘master’ room.

The posters were, he could only assume, concept art.

Of Sian’s damnable novels, done lovingly in Padmé’s ridiculously talented hand.

Ben lets out another choked wheeze of a laugh, hand trailing up to touch one of them, a rather dramatic shot of the padawan character wielding a lightsaber as pale as his hair, swirled in mists and purple shadow, his master standing back to back with him with his own lavender saber, his profile barely lit, save enough to define his figure and make his eyes glow.

Obi-Wan smacks his hand.

He quickly scans the rest, ears burning, but to his relief, none of them include either of them scantily dressed – though there is one where they are revealingly rain-soaked, but the feel of the whole image is more one of strife and determination – blaster-burnt and bloodied, supporting each other, clearly mid or post-battle – than of, well, anything racy - and some are sweeping world-scapes, which… aren’t actually so bad, the characters made small against vibrantly detailed environments. They alternate in placements between horribly dramatic holonovella cover art and actually intriguing artistry, and it makes Obi-Wan’s insides squirm, because he wants to throw the embarrassing ones in the trash compactor, but he bets – no, he  _ knows, _ that if he tosses half of them out, Sian will rat on him to Padmé.

She clearly put a lot of effort into these, and it would be… so  _ rude, _ to say he got rid of half of them.

Which he suspects was entirely the intention. Sian and Padmé are too devious by half, and made more so when put together.

Ben keeps snickering, even as he sets down the potted ferns and tree and arranges them in a couple corners.

“It’s not that funny,” Obi-Wan gripes. “How does that not embarrass you?”

Ben turns to him, lifting a brow. “It’s harmless, Obi-Wan, and quite flattering besides. I’ve been the subject of far less pleasant propaganda.”

“Propaganda? For what?”

“For the Republic. For war. For and against the Jedi. I was one of the most well-known faces of the Jedi Order. When the tides turned against us, who else were they going to use?” Ben looks him over, humor fading, and Obi-Wan looks back, swallowing a little. He’s not so different, is he? The Kenobi Report, reformation that followed… wittingly or unwittingly, his name is out there and it is known. “Better a holo-novel than a wanted poster.”

Obi-Wan finds it difficult to respond to that.


	9. Chapter 9

Ben has a lecture to teach and bids his leave fairly quickly after that exchange, and Obi-Wan does a quick perusal of the space to decide what he needs.

He comes back from his first trip to the Store Room with dishes, cookware, and a kettle to find Quinlan wheezing on the floor in front of the posters and Bant fixing shelves of white coral to his walls.

His door still isn’t programmed.

“O-O-Obi-Wa-haha-ah-haha! I can’t –” Quinlan slaps the floor, laughing so hard he can’t breathe, a crumpled saffron yellow fuzzy rug abandoned beside him.

“Obi-Wan, kick him, please,” Bant pleads dryly, one eye rolling back.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes and takes his things into the kitchen to put them away. “I see you found my new quarters okay. Sian beat you to it.”

“We can see that,” Bant smirks over her shoulder, before stepping back to survey the shelves. She bubbles out a dissatisfied sound – one of them is crooked.

Quinlan finally gets himself under control enough to push himself up and wipe the tears off his face, still snickering.

“Quinlan, you never sent us  _ your _ new quarters location,” Bant points out warningly.

“And I’m not gonna!” the kiffar snorts. “You can find it if you’re smart enough. Kriff, Obi-Wan, you didn’t even lock your door!”

“Believe me,” Obi-Wan mutters, “I have regrets.”

Quinlan snickers again.

It's not  _ that _ funny.

The yellow rug ends up in the lounge area, squishy and very soft, and Obi-Wan decides he should get floor cushions and a low table, as opposed to sofas or chairs. He may put a chair in his own room though. It’s big enough. For now, if he wants proper seating, the breakfast nook will suit.

He finishes sorting things in the kitchen, thinking he’s going to have to make a trip to the lower level markets for some spices and such before too long. The food served in the Temple Halls is good, if not quite as varied and enticing as it used to be, but they certainly don’t serve Mandalorian style cuisine, and he rather likes a quiet meal to himself on occasion. It’s something he’s gotten used to, this past year.

“I need to go get furniture – someone come help me carry it back?” Obi-Wan inquires.

“You can use the Force, you know,” Quinlan nudges him, throwing an arm over Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

“And get the narrow side eye from half the masters in the Temple for using the Force frivolously? I’d rather not.”

“I have to fix these, but please, do take that  _ elsewhere,” _ Bant gestures first to the shelves, and then to Quinlan, who feigns a wounded gasp and huffs, turning his face away.

“Bant doesn’t love me anymore,” the dark skinned kiffar pouts emotively.

“I never loved you,” Bant deadpans, silver eyes rolling towards the ceiling.

“Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan, do you hear this? She’s breaking my heart. I’m gonna cry!” Quinlan protests, sagging his weight on the younger knight, who bears it with a snort. “Bant, Bantling –” 

“Then cry,” the younger Jedi both retort dryly.

Quinlan chokes and then cracks a laugh, snickering into Obi-Wan’s shoulder, Obi-Wan laughs lightly, and Bant grins broadly. “Go get furniture,” the mon cala teen shoos them.

They come back with a stack of colorful tasseled and beaded floor cushions and a low sitting, black lacquered oval table that Quinlan had incessantly complained was too boring, which Obi-Wan had tenaciously ignored.

Siri has arrived, standing in the middle of the space and staring at the posters with a look of abject yet fascinated appall on her face, Knight Depa Billaba is courteously looking anywhere but the posters, a beveled pot of succulents in her hands, and Asajj Ventress, for some unfathomable reason, is in his bedroom.

Obi-Wan sets his burden down quickly and deals with that first.

“What  _ are _ you doing?” Obi-Wan questions, finding not only Asajj Ventress, but Talon as well, Master Koon’s maroon skinned, red eyed padawan with the swirling patterned tattoos. Instead of a bed, the room has a sort of hanging artificial nest not made for humanoid occupation that he needs to replace.

Asajj is currently sitting on Talon’s shoulders, trying to secure some sort of lantern to the dome's ceiling, which is also coated in shimmering glass.

Asajj scowls down at him. Talon’s expression is one of bored ambiguity, as if his presence is completely uninvolved in current events. “Hanging a spirit-lure.”

“I’m sorry, you’re hanging a  _ what _ in my bedroom?”

Her dark lips pinch and she passes the object down to him, jerking it back when he reaches for it.  _ “Don’t _ touch the sides,” she warns.

Obi-Wan eyes her and the dubious gift skeptically. It looks basically like a four-sided lantern, the framework painted red, but instead of transparisteel or fabric or flimsi of some sort, the sides are a lattice-work of knotted silk, forming an artful web. An adornment hangs from each corner, heavy beads etched with symbols hanging on string, ending with a large, dark fang that curls inward. Inside the lantern is a flame with no source, a shifting, ethereal blue.

The second he touches it, he can feel all the little hairs on his body stand on end, a bristling potency of strange power. “Padawan Ventress…” Obi-Wan says tightly, handing it back. “I see you’ve made use of the study materials the Nightsisters bestowed you.  _ Why are you hanging this in my bedroom?” _

“It’s tradition,” Talon speaks up, apparently perfectly at ease to keep carrying Asajj on his shoulders, “when you are to sleep in a new place.”

“It’s supposed to protect you from ill-meant spirits trying to get to you in your sleep,” Asajj adds, “If it’s done right.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says dumbly, “Well, thank you, then, I suppose.”

Asajj looks very unimpressed with him, and goes back to what she was doing.

Obi-Wan shakes his head and steps back out to where everyone else is gathered.

Including-

“Sian Jeisel!” Obi-Wan warns, and the devaronian turns on him with a grin before ducking behind Siri, which doesn’t do her much favor as the human padawan is both shorter and less broad.

Siri holds up –

Oh no.

Oh no no.

It’s a copy. Of the book. It’s a plast-bound copy, with a semi-holographic cover –

Obi-Wan lunges for it, and Quinlan snatches it first, which earns him a furious look from Siri that he doesn’t heed and a full-tilt pursuit from Obi-Wan, who bangs his shin on the new table, runs circles around a bemused Knight Billaba, and finally gets a hand on the kiffar only for him to toss it to Sian for safety.

“Sian, give it to me,” Obi-Wan says firmly.

“That  _ was _ the idea,” she grins, but holds it behind her back, “but I’m not sure I should, now.”

“I’ll take it! I’ll take it!” Quinlan cheers.

Obi-Wan looks up, behind Sian. “Master Jinn!”

Quinlan screeches, “Don’t fall for that –” 

Too late, Sian turns reflexively, and Obi-Wan lunges for her and snatches the horrid prize out of her hands. “I am  _ incinerating _ this!”

Sian whips back around with an offended look. “I can always get more copies,” she challenges.

Obi-Wan groans and shuffles over to lean against Bant for support. She pats him consolingly on the shoulder, takes the book out of his hand, and sticks it on one of his new coral shelves.

“It’s quite an engaging read, actually,” Knight Billaba remarks, still standing there with a pot of succulents in her hands.

Obi-Wan looks at her in alarm.

She smiles pleasantly, offering up her housewarming gift.

Obi-Wan has made promises to himself to never drink in order to solve his problems, but he’s pretty grateful when Luminara and Shmi show up with celebratory cake and a bottle of mulled wine.

~*~

Obi-Wan’s friends stay long enough to help him move the nest-bed out and a human-appropriate bed in and to polish off the wine and cake. He leaves a message for Padme, after they’ve gone, thanking her for the posters and the flattery and pleading with her to not indulge Sian too much in regards to appropriating his likeness in ways he finds rather embarrassing.

He comms Satine, giving her a brief walkabout and sending her pictures of the posters when she catches a glimpse of them, because  _ she _ finds it adorable, and he can’t say no to her. She says she envies him having his own space – as on the move as she is, and with all her former homes having been razed to the ground, all her bedrooms are borrowed, some more luxurious than others, and the closest thing to personal privacy she has between her security and her enemies and the public eye is the inside of her own head.

Obi-Wan tells her he knows a nice quiet spot on Tatooine where one can disappear for as long as one likes, and she pulls a face.  _ “Too much sand,” _ she remarks, shaking her head,  _ “and too hot! I’d turn as red as a zeltron and shortly thereafter expire.” _

Obi-Wan laughs, recalling his own persistent sunburn less than fondly, and rubs at the bridge of his nose.

_ “You do, however,” _ Satine adds, one silver blonde brow lifting suggestively,  _ “look quite fetching with freckles.” _

“Oh,  _ do _ I?” he grins, utterly delighted at this development.

_ “No, nope!” _ Sha’me’s voice calls out in the background.  _ “We do not have time for flirting, Jorad’alor! Your ten minutes are up!” _

Satine winces, flushing faintly, and the two of them share a wistful look before signing off.

Quiet settles in his quarters, the slightly sterile quiet of a place that hasn’t been occupied in awhile, the familiar impressions of his friends faint for all that they’d just been there. It took time for some things to really sink in. He looks over the pot of succulents, the coral shelves, the fuzzy yellow rug, even the posters, and smiles faintly. His friends certainly hadn’t been shy about leaving their mark.

Obi-Wan remembers to program his door when he heads out for supper, and meets Asajj and Depa afterwards to play three-way push-pull, which they both find childish and mortifying, and then practice the Sand Meditation together as an exercise in awareness and dexterity. Asajj finds it’s easier to fall into tune with the pair of them, having spent most of her life existing in tandem with her Master, but Depa is the better at fine control of the Force. Both of them know just enough about energy manipulation to be alarming the first time they practice the grounding exercise that Ben taught Obi-Wan.

Then again, most Jedi only ever learn just enough about energy manipulation to glance a blaster-shot aside as a last resort and to avoid catching an explosion to the face. The more mechanically inclined learn how to ground raw current to avoid electrocution, but anything more than that is specialized.

Obi-Wan turns the wrong direction heading back to his quarters, feet taking him instinctively towards Ben’s quarters, but he catches himself before he actually gets to the door.

He gives the spirit-lure another dubious look when he settles down for the night, but as eerie and slightly sinister as it first appears, the fragile blue glow is actually kind of soothing.

He dreams of shadows and hazy, indistinct lights, of voices just as vague and uncertain, an ocean of whispers – some that seem to try and gain is attention, and others that seem utterly indifferent or else oblivious.

The more he tries to make sense of it, the less sense any of it makes.

The hazy lights turn into fire, flickering and illusive, the fire turns into water, into a raging sea, the voices into rain, the rain into snow – snow, falling on Coruscant –

_ But it doesn’t snow on Coruscant. _

Obi-Wan wakes abruptly, shifting so starkly between sleep and alertness that at first he isn’t sure he is awake. He sits up.

“ – you see?”

He looks over, and there is –

His heart skips a beat, then  _ races. _

There is-

He blinks, mouth gone dry, an alarmed prickle blooming and skittering across his skin as he throws the covers up and lurches to his feet –

It –  _ she _ – is gone.

“Master Polkit?” he questions the darkness, broken only by the faint blue flickering of the spirit-lure.

_ What the fuck? _

_ What the fuck? _

~*~

A rapid hammering on the door is something Ben only vaguely registers before a burst of motion enters the room and Fay protests as their bed is abruptly invaded.

Hands grab his shoulder and Ben smacks a hand on Obi-Wan’s face, fending him off.

“Obi-Wan, what –?”

The young knight looks slightly manic and slaps his hand aside carelessly. “Ben,” he says urgently, looming over the not-quite-awake Jedi Master. “I just saw a ghost in my room.”

Ben blinks stupidly.  _ He hasn’t even been gone a single night – _

Fay grumbles curiously, lifts her head – golden blonde hair a voluminous mess – looks at the boy, and lets out a confused laugh.

“What?”


	10. Chapter 10

“What?”

Asajj withdraws from the door suspiciously, when Obi-Wan – Knight Kenobi – Master Ben and Master Fay come calling early enough in the morning to be impolite. She and Master Ky haven’t even finished breakfast.

Master Fay smiles; one of those vivaciously bright, sweet smiles that sometimes seem as dangerous as a nexu’s claws, even when there isn’t an ounce of malice behind it, just… Master Fay. “Little one, could you kindly explain exactly how as spirit-lure is meant to function?”

Asajj hesitates for a moment.

_ I’m not in trouble for practicing magick, am I? _

It had just been a  _ gift. _

Besides, she was hardly the only one in the Temple who studied magick!

Still, she eyes the three of them. While her circle of acquaintances were quite accepting, she knew many in the Temple found such ‘extracurricular’ studies to be dubiously experimental at best and damningly heretical and dangerous at worst. It didn’t make her or the other Dathomiri very popular.

Still, she wouldn’t expect a scolding about it from Obi-Wan or Master Naasade, but Master Fay on the other hand…

“Asajj?” Master Ky finally rises from the table with a small grunt of effort – they haven’t done their morning stretches yet, and she knows his back still has a tendency to stiffen up. “Is something – oh hello,” he steps around one of the painted screens that partitions their quarters, all ink and watercolor landscapes reminisce of the mountainous scenery on Rattatak, and catches sight of their visitors, looking – well, like they were visiting too early. He’s got his robe thrown over his sleep tunic and his undershorts and that’s it. Master Ky’s face colors a bit as he adjusts the robe, and Asajj can’t help but smirk at him. He gives her a warning look and clears his throat. “Ben, Obi-Wan, Master Fay.”

The golden-haired master dips her head graciously.  _ “Please _ call me Fay.”

Master Ky’s brow pinches. “Alright, what can we do for you?” he rests a supporting hand around Asajj’s elbow, quietly backing her up, and she’s relieved for it.

“They’re looking for me,” Asajj says, arms crossed, and glances back at their guests. “You didn’t touch it, did you?” she directs at Obi-Wan, a bit accusatorily. If she was in trouble because he couldn’t follow one simple direction, then that wasn’t fair.

“No,” he replies flatly. “I…” he trails off, unease, confusion, frustration and then sheepishness flickering over his face in quick succession. “I think there was… well, a ghost. In my room. Last night. I saw… something. Under the spirit-lure you gave me.”

Asajj blinks at him and snorts. “That was the least eloquent I’ve ever heard you speak. So you saw a ghost, so what?” she shrugs.

The other Jedi in the room share glances, and Obi-Wan rubs the back of his neck. “Right, you weren’t temple-raised.”

Asajj bristles. She’s aware of that. There were a selective few of her peers who made sure she didn’t forget it. She doesn’t need to hear it from Obi-Wan too.

His brow furrows in concern, sensing her flash of anger, and Asajj takes a breath, still scowling. Maybe she’s a little sensitive, but this was  _ Obi-Wan Kenobi.  _ She knows him. He’s harmless.

She shakes her head a little, and his gaze flickers as he concedes to not question what that was about and move on.

“The Jedi Order, from an official standpoint, does not give merit to the idea that spirits might… linger after death,” Obi-Wan explains, “Doctrine holds that we become one with the greater whole of the Force, and that our individuality therefore dissipates.”

“Modern doctrine,” Fay interjects with a mutter.

Obi-Wan glances back at Fay and nods. “So let’s just say that claiming to have seen one in my room seems… foolish if not childish,” his voice lowers into a mumble, and his ears redden.

Master Naasade makes a muffled sound of amusement and then covers his mouth, turning it into the clearing of his throat while he strokes his beard. Obi-Wan shoots him a glare.

Whatever that was about, Asajj didn’t care.

“Well,” the dathomiri padawan says directly, loosening up. “The Rattattaki believe in ghosts, and the Nightsisters are very, very confident of their existence. Hence the spirit-lure, to prevent possession.”

“Yes, right, and how does that work, exactly?” Master Naasade inquires politely. “An explanation may shed some light on the situation.”

Asajj hesitates, not exactly an expert on the subject herself. “Erm…”

~*~

“Padawan Howl, Padawan Talon, Padawan Savage, Padawan Ravage, Padawan Leska, Padawan Feral, good morning.”

Leska giggles that there are members of the Temple who take delight in making sure to greet every single one of Master Plo’s Padawan Pack individually, just to highlight the delightful absurdity of his having taken on  _ six _ of them at the same time.

She’s proud to be one of them.

Her brother-padawans haven’t quite, however, gotten out of the habit of glancing first at Leska before replying to anyone who addresses them.

She is, however, with Master Plo’s quiet support and coaching, getting better at being politely rude and feigning obliviousness both to the glances and to whomever is addressing the group until someone else speaks up. Master Plo says he’s relying on her to help break them of that habit and conditioning, lest someone take advantage of it in the future.

It still makes her stomach squirm, though, especially when it’s someone like a Councilor, because there is often an awkward, lurching silence before one of the Nightbrothers actually does speak up.

Most of the time, it’s Feral who does, unless the tone or the inquiry of the person in question is rude, in which case Talon is the quickest with an acerbic retort. Howl is better with manners and responding to authority, however, and Savage will step in whenever anyone speaks directly to one of the youngest three, which usually makes Ravage pipe up just to prove he’s too grown up to need someone stepping in for him.

“Good morning,” Howl speaks up first, and Leska smiles and gives him two thumbs up, which always makes him shift a little, both pleased and embarrassed about it before his bearing falls back into imposing, observant solemnity. “Master Plo is not present.”

“They’re not here for that,” Padawan Ventress, in the company of Master Ben, Master Fay, and Padawan – no, it was  _ Knight _ Kenobi now. “They’ve got questions about Magick.”

Leska finds it adorable that her three eldest brother-padawans all shift back slightly and cross their arms in the exact same way at the exact same time. Feral copies them a half beat later, trying to look as imposing and impressive as they were in spite of the fact that he was downright scrawny compared to the others.

“Is this about the Spirit-Lure?” Talon inquires, looking directly at Knight Kenobi.

“They want to know how it works,” Asajj replies, and Talon looks to her, nods, and then looks back to Padawan Kenobi.

Knight Kenobi.

Leska can see that he doesn’t have a braid anymore, that there are three Journeyman beads on a pretty green tassel on his lightsaber hilt, and feel the potency of his connection to the Force, but he just – he looks so  _ young, _ to be a Jedi Knight. He’s certainly got a powerful presence, especially with that Mandalorian armor, but –

His face is so soft and pretty.

Leska flushes and looks down at her boots, making a mental apology for her thoughts and being really, really glad he can’t sense them.

“It’s  _ magick,” _ Talon retorts, a tad snide, as he is want to be, “We can show you the notebooks for constructing it, and the functional results, but the mechanics aren’t so… codifiable.”

“It’s function, then,” Master Naasade prompts, nodding.

“A spirit-lure is meant to prevent possessions and attacks from malicious non-corporeal entities. When they get close to it, it draws them in and reveals them before they can get to you. That’s why it’s meant to be hung near your bed, because you’re most vulnerable when sleeping, and it doesn’t have that far a span of influence. When you go to a new place, you can unsettle its ghosts and make them angry, so it became traditional to give spirit-lures as a house gift. They don’t last more than a few years, but that’s long enough for the ghosts to get used to you, unless they’re  _ really _ malicious.”

“It sounds like ghosts are… prevalent, on Dathomir.”

“Well, yeah,” Talon shrugs.

Knight Kenobi frowns. “We didn’t have one of those when we visited Dathomir. We didn’t have any problems with hauntings.”

Savage snorts and Talon lifts a brow. “Why would the Nightsisters give you a Spirit-Lure? They don’t like the Jedi. Besides, you wouldn’t have been bothered much – you had a witch and you had – him.” Talon gestures in Master Naasade’s direction, earning a ruffled frown from the red-haired master.

“I’m not really a Witch,” Asajj scowls.

“Not in practice,” Talon shuffles a little, looking her over – Leska thinks that Talon feigns being unbothered a lot, but he seems a little sweet on Padawan Ventress, “but you bleed more power than most of them. Ghosts are dead, not stupid.”

~*~

“So it really is possible that Master Polkit  _ is _ haunting me,” Obi-Wan lets out a forceful exhale, as the enormity of the implications slowly builds up around his thoughts.

“Likely haunting the Temple,” Fay interjects graciously, sipping on a cup of tea, settled cross-legged on the sofa in Ben’s quarters across from Obi-Wan, Ben between them.

Obi-Wan shoots the golden-haired master a look. “I would like to point out that I saw her  _ in my bedroom. _ That seems sort of personal.”

“Not necessarily,” Ben murmurs, stroking his beard. Obi-Wan frowns, rubbing at his jaw, and looks at the older Jedi to continue. “Consider your newfound connection to the Cosmic Force, Obi-Wan.”

“Beg pardon?” Fay inquires politely, leaning forward in intrigue, hair slipping over her shoulder and into her mug. She doesn’t appear to notice. Master Ben, without looking, reaches over and flicks the offending lock out of the cup, the ends damp. Fay, oblivious, moves the mug away like he had intended to steal it, still glancing between them for an explanation.

“There was an incident on Tatooine,” Obi-Wan starts with hesitant sheepishness. “I went too deep and too far and sort of… left my body?”

“It happens,” Fay nods blithely. Obi-Wan can feel his brow pinch, and the corner of Ben’s mouth twitches in humor.

“My body sort of got possessed by an entity of the Cosmic Force. By an exceedingly powerful entity of the Cosmic Force –”

“There was no ‘sort of’ about it –” Ben mutters.

“Beg pardon? You were  _ possessed? _ Child, how did you get your body  _ back?” _ Fay inquires, alarmed and aghast.

“I politely asked the entity to leave and it did,” Ben answers for Obi-Wan, who had just vaguely gestured in his direction, because Obi-Wan himself had nothing to do with it. “But not without some glaring after-effects.”

“I’d say…” Fay mutters, looking Obi-Wan deep in the eyes long enough to make him feel quite uncomfortable. “Is that why you’ve taken to shielding so tightly?”

Obi-Wan breaks her gaze and looks down. “Coruscant is… noisy.”

Fay’s mist grey eyes pinch in worried concern, and she and Ben share a look. Obi-Wan can guess what it regarded – there were no living Masters of the Cosmic Force, not in the Jedi Temple, at least. Not when it was currently regarded as a dangerous field of study, too close to the darkside and thus taboo to delve into.

“I believe, gentlemen, that we should proceed regarding this turn of events with great caution, both in regards to your abilities, young man, and in regards to overturning ten centuries of temple doctrine on the subject of  _ Death, yet the Force.” _

Obi-Wan blows out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Right. The Council is going to love this. Why am _ I _ always the one in the middle of these things?”

Fay blinks at him, lifts a fine golden brow and points one errant finger at Ben, who coughs over his cup, giving her a disgruntled look.

“Right,” Obi-Wan mutters again.


	11. Chapter 11

_What is the difference, between a soul and a life?_

Ben is getting more familiar with the artistic scrawl of the archaic Aurebesh that occasionally deigns to appear in the book he was given on Dathomir. He managed to copy the last passage it offered on Tatooine before the missive seemed to bleed away into the scrawling patterns of the pages to assist in studying what he can of it.

According to the archivists, however, the writing style does not date back a mere six hundred years. Aurebesh hasn’t changed form terribly much throughout history, but they seem quite certain that cluster of characters he’d shown them indicated a colloquial style at least _ten thousand_ years old.

The book may have been attributed to the Night Witch and her rise to power, but whatever it truly was, it far, far predated her.

Perhaps, Ben wonders, the book was not a relic of the Dathomiri witches, but of the ancient civilization of Dathomir that had proceeded them? The temples and ruins there had been old; very, very old.

Regardless, Fay had been poking at it this morning, saying she swore she could hear whispers from the pages but that they seemed to vanish when she focused on them. Obi-Wan dislikes it, and Fay finds it an intriguing curiosity, but one she can sense leads into dangerous depths.

When she had handed it back to him, he had brushed his fingers over the pages and that passage had been almost clear as day.

_What is the difference, between a soul and a life?_

And beneath that, symbols that where clearly symbols, and one string of characters – one string of characters was an exact match to those carved on Asajj’s Spirit-Lure.

Ben is suspecting more and more that the book is not merely magick – but that it is, on some level, _aware_.

In which case…. It may not be a _book_ at all.

That… _troubles_ him.

A sudden brush of cold drags Ben from his thoughts and he glances around, quite having lost focus on where he was going. Not for ahead of him, he can see a fellow jedi master with one arm braced against the wall, their head bowed low with strain and fatigue, their other hand covering their eyes. 

He’s shielding quite tightly, but even still Ben can sense the distress and despair seeping off of his figure like a chill fog. There are cracks in his shields, in his presence, that should not be there.

“Master Sifo-Dyas?” Ben calls softly, concerned and cursing himself abruptly.

Of course, of course, how could that have slipped his mind? It was all close now, so very close.

“I’ll be fine in a moment,” Master Sifo-Dyas mutters.

No, Ben thinks doubtfully, he won’t be.

“I doubt that, Master Sifo-Dyas,” Ben sighs and strides over to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Shall we find somewhere to settle a bit?”

If anything, the other Jedi Master just sags further, seeming more defeated.

“It won’t help,” he utters finally letting the hand slide from covering his eyes, which were sunken with sleeplessness. The man is thinner than Ben recalls too, strands of silver streaking more and more through his brown hair. “I can’t get these dreams – these visions – out of my…” his brow pinches painfully, eyes squeezing briefly shut even as he tries to explain. “They’re like a fire in my mind. And they just won’t _stop_ ,” his voice cracks, and Ben tightens his grip, making the decision for the both of them that they are going to find somewhere to sit.

“Master Sifo-Dyas, have you been to the Healers?”

The other man nods miserably, and Ben gets him sitting on the nearest bench he can find. “They can’t help. Nothing helps,” he bows over his knees, burying his face in one hand again, the other knotting on a string of beads slung around his neck – familiar style beads, not unlike the ones that had been given to Jax Skywalker.

The man breathes raggedly, and then looks up suddenly. “Is this what you saw?” Sifo-Dyas suddenly demands. “Why didn’t you tell us? We need to – we need to prepare, we need to-“

“Stop,” Ben grabs the man by the shoulders again and forces him still, shaking him sharply, just once. The Seer’s gaze burns into him, and Ben lifts one hand and places it gently over the other master’s brow. “You saw it the first time too, Master Sifo-Dyas, and what it led you to do…” Ben shakes his head.

Sifo-Dyas leans into the comfort of his touch, his body wracking silently, thrumming with tension and desperation. “Why? Why? If there is nothing we can do?” his eyes fall shut again, but the man seems too tired for tears. Ben can imagine how exhausted he must be. “If nothing we do changes it?”

Ben looks down, wishing he had an answer, his thoughts churning.

 _But I have changed it. Something has to have changed_ –

He has altered the story of Anakin Skywalker, he has seen the Jedi more united than they have been in generations -

Ben has altered the fate of Jango Fett, and without him, what would the Clone Wars be? Without General Grievous, without Count Dooku?

Where these changes truly too little to matter?

“What do you see?” Ben whispers.

“It’s all just… flashes, moments, it’s not coherent, just maddening and it doesn’t stop, it doesn’t-“ his voice rises and rushes.

“Sifo-Dyas, calm yourself or I will find a method to do so that I imagine you will not like,” Ben warns.

Master Sifo-Dyas blinks. “That’s a very polite manner of saying you’ll slap me. My healer doesn’t bother with being polite about it.”

Ben can’t help a soft snort, pulling his hand down from the other mans brow.

Sifo-Dyas smiles weakly and takes a deep breath, hands trembling. Ben takes one, too inured to flinch at how cold the other mans hands are. The contact seems to help. Ben knows all too well how isolating knowing too much can feel.

“I see…. Battlefields, I suppose. I see weapons. Explosions, bursting through walls, scorching flesh…. I see….people running in fear, from shadows in the sky. Screaming. Crying. I see them gasping for air. I see Jedi dying, so many of us dying-“ Sifo-Dyas shudders, twisting his hand and gripping Ben’s fiercely. “I don’t just see cities on fire, Master Naasade. I see worlds ablaze, falling into shadow. I see….bones, in snow. More than can ever be counted. I can _hear_ them – I can hear – begging to be saved. For someone to come save them. And no one does. No one _can_.”

The man shakes.

“It doesn’t stop, Naasade, it just doesn’t _stop_.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben murmurs, gritting his teeth, every word the Seer says a dark knell he cannot escape.

Sifo-Dyas nods. “Do you know who they are?” he asks.

“Who?” Ben inquires warily.

The other man looks to him, the look in his gaze nearly manic. “I see eyes, always watching us. They’re in every dream, but I don’t know them. I just see their eyes – these burning eyes, and then darkness. Darkness, and the sense of something beyond it, something… worse.”

~*~

“I knew _someone_ would get me a teapot,” Obi-Wan muses, turning the object in question over in his hands, which was made of pure jade.

Tsui smiles mildly, the expression pulling on the one side, warped by the scars left of his self-healing attempt. “We drew straws.”

“You did not,” Obi-Wan snorts.

Tsui gives him a half-lidded smirk, and Obi-Wan laughs. “Well, I’m glad you’re the winner then, I think. I was half afraid Siri might give me a Gatalentan teapot so I would be forever reminded of the fact that she’s technically my ex-wife.”

“Like you won’t be already?” Tsui questions.

“It wasn’t even my fault!” Obi-Wan protests. “Why don’t people tease _Siri_ about it?”

“Hm,” Tsui makes a show of thinking about it, and then warbles; “Because Siri doesn’t blush as you do.”

“Tsui!”

“It’s true,” the aleen shrugs unapologetically.

Obi-Wan can’t help his ears turning red, and grumbles a complaint.

They go meet with the Temple’s Junior Sabacc League and Obi-Wan manages to trump his friend at least one round of cards before he leaves Tsui to guide everyone else on the nuances of the game to go meet with Asajj and Depa. They are to go through Daosaan blade-forms this time because Asajj threatened his life if they played three-way push-pull again.

He thinks she’ll be less grouchy about it once they really start working all the elements into practice and realize how important these foundational skills really are. For now, he starts showing them the katas he’s developed, and the three of them practice single-bladed and experiment with helping Asajj adapt them into her Jar’kai style.

He has dinner with Bant, Siri and Tsui and listens to the three of them argue amicably over the virtues of some new opera which he couldn’t really follow if he tried. Master Windu passes by and gets drawn into it, which seems to frustrate Depa as the knight keeps trying to herd him a couple tables over to join Master Gallia before she finishes her supper and leaves.

Depa ends up giving Siri a very long, pointed look, which the blonde finally notices; Siri whips her head around to spy her master sitting a couple tables away, realization blooming on her face, and she looks back to Master Windu and abruptly begs off the debate.

Obi-Wan snickers into his soup and earns a suspicious look from Master Windu. Obi-Wan waves him off with a polite, innocent smile, shaking his head.

Siri thunks her head down on the table and groans, fingers in her hair. “I’m so stupid,” she mutters, whining, and then abruptly pops back up. “We should get them tickets to the opera!”

“What? Who?” Bant blinks, one eye on Siri and the other on her food.

“Master Mace and Master Adi!”

“I’m gonna be – not involved in this,” Obi-Wan begs off and backs away, swinging his legs over the bench. “But good luck. People have been trying for years.”

He heads to the archives after dinner to look up as much as he can on the Cosmic Force before Madam Nu starts offering him a pinched look of skeptical concern.

Well, if anyone _does_ say anything – Obi-Wan will just tell them that he’s researching something Ben put him up to.

It’s not exactly untrue.

~*~

He enters her quarters in a fluster, and Yaddle peers at hm narrowly and then nods, inviting him in.

“Master Yaddle, I need to-“ Master Naasade starts, voice thick with all the hushed urgency of one under stress.

Yaddle flicks an ear, claws tapping on her stick before she lifts it an points to the large cushioned pod that rests in her quarters exclusively for larger company. “Sit, you ought to. A guest, you are,” she says simply.

He blows out a breath, presses his lips together tightly, and then obeys, fingers tugging on the hems of the sleeves of his robe. “Yes, thank you, but I-“

She holds up a claw tipped hand and toddles into her little kitchen, pouring fresh tea and fetching two cups, humming beneath her breath, a slightly grated sound.

He sits. He doesn’t settle, brow pinched in the middle as he tests the limits of courtesy. “I didn’t really come for-“

“Cookies?” Yaddle inquires.

“Master _Yaddle_!” It’s not quite a snap – he would not dare – but the outburst speaks volumes of tension and impatience.

And fear.

Something has terribly unsettled him, and Yaddle is terribly sorry for it. He has been _well_ , since his return from sabbatical with his young knight, and it has been good to see.

“Hasty, you are,” Yaddle narrows her eyes at him, moving back into her sitting area with a tea tray and a platter of syrup cookies. “Unlike you, this is. Clear, is your judgement?” She inquires sternly, concerned for his own sake. He has been careful and reticent these past years, and while that may chafe a great many, Yaddle was not of the same mind of her peers. She was the Master of Shadows, she knew the dangers of secrets and their revelations all too well. While she has wished he would entrust her and her people with a bit more of them, he has proven that he will come to her, to others, when the need arises and the timing seems fortuitous.

But when he came to her last he was not like this – not agitated and ruffled. There had been a deliberateness and a purpose, the last time he had come to her.

Master Naasade pauses, blue-grey eyes swimming with doubt. “Perhaps not,” he confesses. “But I’m not sure it matters.”

“Oh, and when does clear judgement matter not?” Yaddle counters his remark, ears lifting imperiously.

He accepts a cup of tea, turning it in his fingers, and looks down into the cup. Yaddle sips at her own, and waits, while he does the respectable thing, and _settles_.

He breathes in deep, and lets it out slow, and Yaddle listens as the quiet rhythm of his breath repeats and fills her quarters.

His gaze flicks back up to her, as bright and sharp as a blade. He lick his lips before he speaks. “Have your people found anything, Master Yaddle? Anything real, of the Sith? Anything more than the possible paranoid delusions of a man with a questionable mental state? Can you prove that I have been telling the truth?”

“The truth, I do not doubt it is,” Yaddle remarks, quietly resolute.

“Master Yaddle,” he insists, fingers tight around his cup, bearing tight with tension but rigid rather than hunched – this is not the look of a man crumbling under pressure, exactly, but the look of a man ready to dive into battle, “ that is not enough! Can you _prove_ it?”

Yaddle peers back at him for a moment, and then allows her ears to droop. “We cannot,” she admits sorrily.

His eyes close, and squeeze tight – an expected blow, but one that still hurts.

“It’s not like we did any better the first time around,” he mutters, letting out a loosening sigh as he opens his eyes again and looks to her. “Master Yaddle, the man I _know_ is a Sith is Senator Sheev Palpatine of Naboo. Whether he is at present the apprentice or the master – I’m not sure.”

“The apprentice, was not Maul Oppress?” Yaddle inquires shrewdly.

“ _An_ apprentice,” Ben utters wearily. “Palpatine’s, yes, but the Rule of Two of Bane’s line is hardly… absolute. I know that a decade from now that Palpatine was the Master, but at present?” he shakes his head. “I don’t know and I can’t begin to guess.”

Yaddle rumbles in her throat, thinking it over. “Hm. A Senator, you say?” that is terribly unfortunate news. “A powerful Senator, is Palpatine of Naboo. Well liked, he is. Friendly with the Order, he is.”

Ben Naasade scoffs, gaze glittering. “Believe me, I know.”

“Hmm,” Yaddle ponders. “Investigate thoroughly, we will. Thank you for your contribution, I do.”

“Don’t,” he shakes his head. “Perhaps if I had told you outright years ago…. But I was afraid. What I know he can do – will do, or – or would - I’m _still_ afraid, Master Yaddle,” he confesses, looking sorry for it and shamed by it. Yaddle leans over the tea tray and rests her blunt claws against his chilled hand.

“Yes,” Yaddle agrees sadly, not blaming him for such wounds in the slightest. “But alone now, you are not.”


	12. Chapter 12

The sky is still blushing with early sunrise when Ben is let in to Senator Organa’s offices, and yet the man looks coifed, alert, and studiously busy. There are stacks of datapads, all neatly lined up, of course, several loose reams of flimsy which are rather less orderly, and no less than three abandoned teacups idly placed here or there, a fresh pot currently waiting on a tea cart, steam rising delicately with a mellow floral scent.

Ben pauses, assessing, as Bail doesn’t quite seem to register his presence – and the aide did not announce him. Teacup number four is in Bail’s hand, lifted off the table but seeming to have paused halfway on its journey towards his mouth. The Senator’s brow is faintly quirked, and his lips are pursed thoughtfully as his gaze focuses sharply on whichever document he was currently perusing. There is a sound in the room Ben notices and can’t place, a soft rise and lull in the background that puzzles him.

“Good morning, Bail, have you slept?” Ben greets fondly.

Bail looks up and then blinks, and glances aside to the windows. “Goodness, that time already?”

An attendant by the door coughs politely.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Ben smirks and steps forward, now acknowledged. He glance at the teacup in Bail’s hand, still hovering, and Bail tracks his gaze and dithers a moment, deciding eventually to take a quick sip and set it down. Ben has a feeling the drink was no longer warm, given that Bail sets the cup on a stack of datapads and lifts two more from the tea cart adjacent to his desk, waving off the attendant when they lurch forward to pour for him. The attendants seems terribly put out by it. Ben offers them a sympathetic look and gratefully accepts a cup of tea from Bail.

“It’s good to see you, Ben,” Bail says, looking him over with a keen brown eye. “You look well.”

Ben is oddly glad Bail did not say ‘better’. Ben is not proud of the state he had been in when last Bail saw him.

His thoughts dart, back to Chandrila, to Maul, to Sideous, to his confession to Master Yaddle.

He did not make that decision with haste, though it had been hastily delivered. He has mused for years now that bringing the Order of Shadows into the know would one day be necessary. He had just hoped… well, he had hoped they would get there on their own, that they would the find the evidence needed to take action on their own, without his potentially damning involvement.

But it has been years, and they have not found it.

They are running out of time.

Hopefully, if given a firm push in the right direction, all will fall together as he needs it to. If not – well, if not, he’s going to have to plan on how to deal with the Sith without dragging the Jedi headlong into the trap the Sith have laid for them.

The Republic itself was Darth Sideous’s shield from the Jedi Order. They had to be careful, so careful, or else…

Well, Ben has already seen that future.

He hopes the Shadows can succeed. It will all be so much simpler to deal with, if they do – but they should begin making plans, he and Yaddle, on what the Order should do - is willing to do - if the Shadows do not.

 _I'm not alone anymore_ , he reminds himself. _We need to make these plans together_.

“Ben?” Bail prompts.

“Apologies, my thoughts wandered,” Ben refocuses his attention, sipping at the tea blend which had a lovely soft, smooth flavor and a slightly citrus aftertaste, for all that the scent of flowers filled the air. “Bail, what is that sound?” Ben inquires, looking around, as another gentle rushing drifts in the air. “Something to help you focus?”

Bail looks down, his smile most sweet. “Something like that,” he murmurs, and glances at the comm-emitter on his desk, the light blinking. Ben follows his gaze and the answer comes to him.

That was Breha, breathing. Sleeping, presumably.

Ben grins. “Should I keep my voice down?” he murmurs.

Bail looks back at him, amused and utterly unabashed. “Don’t worry, she can’t hear us, so we won’t disturb her.”

“The two of you are indescribably lovely,” Ben smiles. “Just so you are aware.”

Bail is still not a man who blushes, but that is saccharine enough that he looks like he considers blushing, under the sincere affection of Ben’s words.

Instead, Bail clears his throat, and tips his cup in casual toast. “Thank you,” he replies. “Now, tell me there’s nothing amiss? If this is going to be one of _those_ mornings I’ll need something more fortifying than candlewick tea.”

“Like sleep?” an attendant inquires with cheery enthusiasm. Unlike their superior, his poor attendants look a little bedraggled, though Ben does not doubt that they’ve been discreetly taking shifts in an out to nap. They knew how critical it was to keep themselves alert and focused. Still, naps did not a good nights rest make, especially for those who could not bolster themselves with the Force.

“It is not going to be one of those mornings,” Ben assures Bail and thus everyone on his staff currently present and or eavesdropping like the diligent subordinates that they were. “But I think a little fortification would not go amiss. I hadn’t planned on it but – if you are amenable – perhaps this Jedi Master could take you to breakfast?” – _so your poor staff can get some rest_?

Bail’s brown gaze meets Ben’s eyes, and Ben smiles one of his most agreeable and charming smiles, having emphasized his own title just enough to get Bail’s attention. The Viceroy of Alderaan would be perfectly safe in his care. Bail glances at his two attendants, and the aide drooping over their own desk in the corner, and smiles charmingly back.

“I think breakfast would be quite agreeable,” he replies.

Yes, Ben rather thought he’d understand. He does so delight in having company that can keep up with the subtle nuances.

“Are you sure nothing is amiss?” Bail inquires, absently taking his cloak from a prompt attendant and transferring his call with Breha to his private communicator, which Ben finds – exactly as sweet and devoted as it is. He has always found great comfort in the surety Bail and Breha had with one another. “Your request last night seemed a bit abrupt, else I wouldn’t have scheduled our appointment so early.”

“I don’t mind the hour,” Ben assures him. “I won’t say there’s nothing troubling me as you wouldn’t believe it, but it’s no shadow I intend to bring over your head.”

“I wouldn’t begrudge it,” Bail searches his gaze, and Ben smiles politely, shaking his head.

“Think little of it, Bail, please I beg you. I’d rather it not turn into one of those mornings, so I would _hope_ it doesn’t surprise you that I simply enjoy your company, and wished a little of it?” Ben lifts a brow.

Senator Organa huffs out a chuckle. “That was smooth! Was it flattery or insult? I couldn’t quite tell and my wife isn’t awake to weigh in.”

“Bail Organa, are you suggesting that _I_ would dare _insult_ the Viceroy of Alderaan? It would be most impudent.”

Bail chuckles again, and Ben finds his worries easing as he relaxes into a simple morning with a good friend.

~*~

Depa Billaba watches her companions, herself settled patiently on the ground, content to lean back and just, observe, arms crossed.

She is aware, though she has not been on the forefront, that great change has come to the jedi in the last few years. That she is one of the last of a generation of Jedi trained before what was officially entitled by the temple archivists as the Revitalization Initiative and what was more colloquially referred to by the jedi at large as the Kenobi-Skywalker Reformation. One of the last who was made a knight by understanding what it is and what it takes to be a Jedi alone in the galaxy, with nothing but herself and the Force. If she were less wise, she might wonder if it made her something better or worse than those who will either soon forget or never know what it was like, when the Jedi were so isolated from each other, as well as from everyone else.

But she is wise enough to know that it makes her neither better or worse, just different. They will all still face their trials, their victories, their failures, they will all still strive for enlightenment, and learn the best and worst of themselves. They are all still Jedi, trying to bring light to a galaxy rife with darkness.

She thinks it is good, that they have changed, are changing, will continue to change.

That they are more unified, that they are no longer sent into the field alone for any but the most mild and rote of missions (though Master Fay, she is aware, intends to pilot a program of Rangers, is in discussion with the Council for it, but even she agrees that such an endeavor may wait a few more years, before they start sending their most capable Masters beyond the reaches of the Republic, to offer their services to systems the Jedi have not visited in a long, long time.)

Still, there is something heavy about that knowledge, about that difference. Something that settles low in her chest sometimes. Something close to melancholy, but not quite yearning nor regret.

It is difficult to admit, but Obi-Wan Kenobi makes that feeling worse.

When she trains with him, even when she just observes him, it weighs on her. Mostly, the knight thinks, because she wonders how it weighs on _him_ , and how he deals with it. He was _fourteen_ , when he brought before the Council the damning evidence of the decline of the Jedi Order, and that is something that he will never escape. What was it like? To have to stand there and _say_ it? To have to tell them, knowing what it would take from them for them to know? To be… _responsible_ for that knowledge?

She wonders what that has cost him, and what it has given him. She wonders where the balance between the two lies, within his thoughts and behind his actions.

She wonders if the Jedi should regret that it was a fourteen year old boy who had to bring it to their attention, who had to provide for them the impetus to save themselves – to understand that they _needed_ to be saved – or if they should be grateful that it was _this_ boy – now a remarkable young man – who had happened, at the time, to have been youngling.

At this particular moment, he is standing ten meters above the floor, leading a very tense Asajj Ventress across a pathway made of air and faith – faith not the padawans own.

Doing, apparently, what Obi-Wan Kenobi does – defying expectation and limit. Sometimes more politely than others. Depa takes a breath and lets her contemplations drift from the forefront of her thoughts, settling instead into this moment.

“Trust me,” Obi-Wan teases, and the young dathomiri scowls fiercely, glaring at him with winter eyes, her chalk pale skin broke out in a cold sweat as she _does_.

Depa has done this exercise with him, and it is – even though the drop is no true danger to jedi of their caliber – _unnerving_ to stand on nothing but someone else’s faith in the Force. To feel something solid beneath you, but to look down and have your eyes believe that it could not be possible.

To make the exercise more…pressing, and hopefully more effective – and certainly more interesting – _should_ she fall, there are a dozen training droids in the salle waiting to zap her on the way down.

Force Structuring is still a somewhat contentious skillset in the temple – largely because it is difficult (particularly for older knights and masters whose internal view of the Force was not so… mechanical) and because it somewhat offends the restriction of ‘frivolous use of the Force’.

It’s applications, however, expand every day for those who take to it well.

Trust exercises, for example.

Individually, Daosaan required awareness, power, and control all in great measures. To expand beyond individual combat also required just as great a measure of _trust_.

Knight Kenobi had picked his counterparts well – Asajj was a powerhouse, Depa excelled at control, and neither of them balked to admit that Obi-Wan Kenobi’s spiritual connectivity and awareness were exceptional. Functionally, the three of them took to the form he had developed quite well, picking up the variety of separate components which came together into its cohesive and slightly terrifying whole quite well. In practice, however – unity was still difficult. Playing push-pull and learning to blend their control and grasp of the Force was – well, _younglings play_ compared to surrendering control to each other in combat – even simulated combat. In practice, Daosaan was much more… spiritually intimate. Even Depa had been startled, the first time she allowed Obi-Wan to channel and guide her power – and part of her herself, as it connected to the Force, with it. Startled to the point of instinctively rebelling.

She’d felt a bit disappointed in herself afterwards, though the younger knight had been very gentle and understanding about it. He’d offered the supposition that it would be easier once they truly mastered individual Daosaan, to fall into each-others pathways and ride the current. It was something that a Jedi did naturally with the Force, after all. They just needed to initiate it with a little bit more deliberate intent on a much more focused scale.

Depa was still a little skeptical, but she wasn’t skeptical enough to consider him disingenuous. The form was still in development. They were all learning its depths and capabilities and drawbacks – even Obi-Wan.

“Now, walk away from me,” Obi-Wan urges, gently drawing his hand away from Asajj’s elbow – her one point of contact with, well, anything.

“Where?” the dathomiri girl snaps uneasily, body held taughtly, all lithe, hard edges as she tried to balance physically on something that was entirely spiritual and thus indefinite by nature. Depa had done the same, having to slowly coax herself into accepting that her standing, as well, must be spiritual, and not physical. It was harder to convince her body of that, than her mind.

“Anywhere you wish, Asajj,” he demurs. “I’ve got you.”

“Did I give you permission?” the padawan retorts. “ _Knight_ Kenobi?” she stresses.

He smiles, a very lovely and charming look that makes the padawan bristle even more, which just makes him cheeky, cheeks dimpling. “I think it would help if you would, Padawan Ventress,” he says respectfully.

She glares at him, a lavender flush slowly suffusing her face before she breaks eyes contact. “Fine. _Obi-Wan_.”

Oh, the way she twists his name so _dourly_. Depa feels her own smile curl, and Obi-Wan is too good-humored – and perhaps otherwise focused, at the moment – to take insult.

“Well now,” he cheers, “ that only took us three years.”

“Shut up,” Asajj snaps, and takes a very belligerent step of faith.

Winter eyes glance down and the dathomiri padawan seems almost insulted that she didn’t actually fall. She takes her next few steps with irritable but growing confidence and an exaggerated contempt for his competency, as if she can feel the rather cheeky smirk he’s offering her back.

Depa really, at times, does not understand the two of them.


	13. Chapter 13

“Knight Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan pauses on his way out of the archives and turns. “Master Gallia?” he inquires politely, wondering at the peeved wrinkle in her brow and the oddly keen light that glints in her eye as she looks him up and down and then idly taps the datapad in her hand.

And then nods.

Obi-Wan feels a prickle roll down his spine, and smiles apprehensively, wondering what has just been decided regarding his person, and why she looks like the solution to a problem has just dropped into her palm.

She strides closer and stops curtly in front of him. “I have a problem.”

“With… me?” he inquires, a little nervous.

Her violet gaze offers him a dry look. “Ought I have a problem with you?” she inquires.

He has a few stray thoughts about Gatalentan divorces and sending Siri home from his housewarming get-together with wine-induced hiccups and schemes involving opera tickets and quickly suppresses them, under the formidable master’s expectant eye. “Erm… no,” he says, his innocence dubious.

“Then clearly not,” Master Gallia remarks simply, releasing him from nervous anticipation. “It’s…” her lips twist, and she shakes her head lightly. She pauses, takes a breath, and pins him with a direct look, as was her way. “I have an assignment.”

Obi-Wan nods, waiting.

She continues. “I have an understanding that Quinlan Vos has something to take care of on Alderaan, so I am assigning him to Illum escort duty.”

“Well that’s good,” Obi-Wan smiles, feeling quite relieved about it, actually. Quinlan could hopefully be prodded into taking Aayla Secura on before the girl took on Disciple status just to come to Coruscant and hunt him down – which Obi-Wan believes is fully within her capabilities, but he would rather spare her the emotional hurt of feeling abandoned by someone who was clearly Force-intended to teach her. Additionally, the Ilum assignment may be rote and simple, but it also decried a great deal of trust for those who were sent as escorts; it involved being given the care of the future of the Jedi, after all. Quinlan’s reputation was still rather mixed, in Temple gossip, but the understanding that he’d been knighted and placed in undercover assignment currently put him in a more favorable light. Getting this sort of assignment could only help reinforce the fact that Quinlan Vos was a Jedi, and that he did have the Council’s trust, tether to the dark side and all.

“With Siri,” Master Gallia adds, with only the faintest flicker of unease.

Obi-Wan stares, balking at that. “Oh,” he utters.

She grimaces. “Yes, ‘oh’. I believe you have some insight into that… business.”

Obi-Wan shifts slightly, “Well-“

“Which is why I am assigning  _ you _ to accompany them.”

That gives him pause.

_ “What.” _

It comes out as a croak, and he clears his throat. “Master Gallia, beg pardon, but…”

“They are your friends, are they not?” she inquires brusquely.

“Yes, but this matter –”  _ is private, _ Obi-Wan thinks.

“Has interfered with my padawan’s ability to center herself for far too long,” Master Gallia states, and then sighs and softens, concern for her charge bleeding through her. “Circumstances did not favor them,” she mutters, “I am hoping a push will help them resolve their troubles and contention more expediently. I am also hoping that your compassion and mediation will make it altogether less painful for everyone involved.”

Obi-Wan stares at her, his expression unknowingly hard, as he contemplates whether he ought to be flattered or offended, and on whose behalf.

He rubs his jaw, picking at the convoluted problem that he didn’t anticipate being unceremoniously dropped upon his head, and she waits.

Obi-Wan eyes her.

“Did you get the opera tickets?” Obi-Wan eventually asks, voice measured.

“What?” the master looks baffled, which to be fair, was because he had inquired as to what seemed a complete non-sequitur.

“Opera tickets,” Obi-Wan repeats clearly, quelling a small tickle of dryness in his throat as beads of cold sweat threaten to roll down his back. He’s glad for the weight of his armor, because her gaze is piercing and it helps him feel a little less vulnerable in light of that.

However.

He feels she deserves a bit of turnabout.

Her brow furrows and her eyes narrow. “Why does that matter?”

“Since we’re dealing with affairs that have been left for far too long, I think it would only be fair, Master Gallia, that you practice what you teach. Attend the opera with Master Windu and accept the seat the Council keeps open for you,” Obi-Wan challenges smoothly, with a calm air of confidence that completely hides the tension in his gut.

“Are you negotiating with me?” she lifts an imposing brow, crossing her arms and giving him a cool, assessing look.

Obi-Wan returns it in full, even if his heartbeat quails, because challenging Master Gallia was  _ not _ what he had planned today – or  _ ever. _ He cannot believe his own gall right now, but the words come out of his mouth and his voice remains level. “I apologize if I appear to be overstepping, but you  _ have _ invited me into matters which are not my business,” he lifts a brow and smiles triflingly, “I figured I would make a full go of it.”

She offers him an odd, perusing look. “On the matter with the Council, perhaps I will concede to that presumption, but what does Mace have to do with anything?” she challenges.

“You are not that oblivious and your padawan in particular is not so subtle that you could have mistaken her intentions,” Obi-Wan says dryly, making a mental apology to Siri as he does so.

“To set me up… on a date… with Mace Windu,” Master Adi says slowly.

“Yes.”

“A man I’ve been in a relationship with for over a year.”

“Ye- what?” his façade cracks in surprise, and her lips twitch in victory.

“Not that it was any of your business,” she adds dryly.

“Master Gallia! Master Gall – you do  _ know _ that half the temple has been trying to set the two of you up for longer than I was a padawan!” Obi-Wan blurts out, lowering his voice as he glances around, but no one else is about to be paying them any mind.

_ “I _ do, yes,” she remarks blandly, amused.

_ “You _ do,” Obi-Wan repeats, trying to puzzle out her tone. Then the stress of her meaning occurs to him. “Master Mace  _ doesn’t.” _

She smiles, the expression playful and indulgent and no one would believe Obi-Wan if he said so, not of the formidable and intimidating Master Adi Gallia, who cowed even the most renowned of masters and belligerent of politicians. “Our relationship – which I will reiterate is far beyond the bounds of your business, but then, I do concede that so is Siri’s and Knight Vos’ – is not the illustrious drama half the Temple seems to believe we’re pining for. We have neither the temperament for great passions or grand romance and as such Mace and I are quite suited and well-content with each other, and  _ more _ than content to keep it between ourselves; particularly – in regards to your second request – given our respective positions within this Order.”

Her expression wanes into the professional coolness she was known for, but something about her gaze remains softer. Obi-Wan is, abruptly, embarrassed, but also quite… touched, he supposes, by the confidence she has offered him. She could have shut him down flat. “I apologize, Master Gallia. It wasn’t my place.”

“You are forgiven,” she says simply, “Like your master, you’ve got good instincts for seizing opportunities. You simply overestimated your argument in this instance. Of all people to nudge me towards the Councilors seat, I wouldn’t have expected it of  _ you.” _

“It’s practically yours already,” Obi-Wan mutters, abashed, scratching at the back of his neck.

“And someday rather sooner than I think you’re expecting, someone is going to use that very same argument on you, Knight Kenobi, and I will invite you to remember this moment,” she teases wryly.

Obi-Wan blanches, and her lips twitch towards a smirk.

“Does that mean you agree?” Obi-Wan inquires, somewhat less enthused, “You’ll take the seat? You do deserve it, Master Gallia.”

She hands him the datapad. “I’ll leave it to you to see that Knight Vos and Siri end up where they are supposed to be,” she remarks, pan and dry and with a touch of resignment that suggests perhaps he has been successful in his wheedling, “May the Force be with you.”

There are layers of meaning beneath her words, and Obi-Wan nods, victory quickly wobbling into disgruntlement. Of course his first mission as a knight wasn’t anything simple and ordinary.

He looks back at Master Gallia and narrows his eyes, wondering how intentional it was that this was the standard being set for him.

She lifts a brow, utterly unreadable, and he concedes defeat.

_ Force help me, _ he thinks, chagrined and impressed,  _ None of us play fair. _

~*~

Some two thousand levels below the Temple Precinct’s surface lays a district known as the Lower Trade Market, falling between the demographics of the working poor, the illicitly employed, and the outright criminal elements of Coruscant’s undercity.

It is simultaneously not a place people would expect to find a Jedi and exactly the kind of place they  _ ought _ to expect to find a Jedi.

The Lower Trade Market is, as the name implies, a market. Unlike most, however, it accepts no credits – not that many people have any to spare down here. Instead, it relies on the direct exchange of goods or services, and, in the midst of this bustling, suspicious quarter, the Jedi have wedged out a space for themselves and have taken to routinely dispensing small supplies and medical services.

They have been dishearteningly unpopular at first, viewed and treated with scorn, dismissal, and outright hostility. Even the most generous watched them with suspicion.

But the Jedi can be patient.

And the needy and desperate are no strangers to taking a risk – not when it comes to survival, so, eventually, they come for what is offered. Slow to come and hasty to retreat, wary of a trap baited with sweets.

But it is no trap.

Time – and learning to actually engage in bartering with their neighbors – has worn off the worst of the fearful edge, and while the folk down here aren’t exactly welcoming, they are by now used to the presence of Jedi in the market, at least.

Which is good, considering the market posting curates an exploratory interest among Coruscanti Jedi, who come down for sheer curiosity now that they have peers working in the area.

It is a small, subtle shift, but gradually, something does change.

There is a metallic humidity to the deeper levels of Coruscant, and a saturated warmth that makes the air and every physical surface the exact same temperature, generated by endless layers of metropolis and a global climate control system that really only works best where it is invested in to work – the upper levels and the grid maintenance hubs.

Yoda finds it not disagreeable, but it tends to make the biologically otherwise inclined of his peers a touch itchy.

Fay lets out a mutter of disgruntlement, twisting her hair up off her neck and wedging it in place with a gleaming glass comb that she produces from the folds of her tunics. Together, they observe the teeming cross-work of pathways and alleys that isn’t quite a square nor any intended sort of park, washed with industrial yellow sun-lamps and a cascade of brilliant neon from various signs and shop-fronts. Packs of curious children stare at Yoda as they duck through hover-sledges and utility droids and the legs of adults. Adults eye him with just as much curiosity, though Fay draws more attention, appearing young and nearly luminous, compared to his hunched, wrinkled visage.

She offers him amused, laughing glances, and Yoda grumbles.

A gift from the Force, her eternal youth is. That she so delights in indulging to pretend, at times, to be exactly the youthful maiden she appears as opposed to the sage elder she  _ is, _ is  _ irreverent. _

Particularly when she does so just to tease her grandpadawan.

At the small shanty hole-in-the-wall the Jedi had managed to acquire, his padawan is chatting cheerily with a few bolder citizens, offering up sachets of seeds and pressed blocks of herbs from the temple gardens. Her presence, much like her good temperament, is one of mellow but constant warmth, and it seeps into the space around her, like motes of yellow sunshine in the Force, making the air seem richer, the ever-shadowed undercity seem brighter, clearer. It does so slowly, but it does so, bit by little, tenacious bit, building up against the stress and desperation that have so long and so thoroughly permeated places such as this.

It will fade, when she leaves, as it always does, but she’ll come back and it will build again, reaching a little farther each time, lingering a little longer.  That is the way of such things.

“You know, don’t you?” Fay muses, looking down at him, a third of her hair spilling from it’s improvised up-do as she does. Her mist grey eyes glance across the way, to Iara, his bright faced zabraki padawan, whose belly-deep laugh bolts through the air unmistakably. The sound draws attention, startling some, earning a faint smile from others – especially when she snorts for laughing and then claps an embarrassed hand over her mouth, a broad smile still evident in her peach-flushed cheeks.

“Hm,” Yoda acknowledges the inquiry, watching the padawan as she sends someone off with a smile and coaxes a curious youngling into taking a closer look at the potted berry bush that so clearly has their attention. One of the many donations from the ever-expanding potted gardens within the Temple.

“Don’t ‘hm’ me, little Yoda,” Fay huffs, “She’s ready and you know it. You have to let it happen.” Fay pauses, her look sobering, and looks seriously at him, less his frivolous grandmaster and more the begrudging head of the Heritage Corps. “Someone has to be the first to knight a padawan completely outside the traditional standard, and it may as well be you.”

Yoda grumbles at her. Padawan Iara would be, as Fay declared, an untraditional Jedi. She would not be a representative of the authority of the Galactic Republic, not be a diplomat or a warrior. Her sole service would be to the Agricorps and to the Force.

Just a farmer.

And a Jedi Knight.

He has seen that there has been uncertainty and apprehension, regarding this very matter – knighting those who came from the original service branches. Worry from those masters who chose to take on these students that they were underprepared, struggling to reconcile the theory of the reintegration and expansion of the Order with the reality.

But Iara knows her calling, and her study and grasp of the Force in regards to that calling, and in regards to her understanding of herself, were equal to the elevation of a Jedi Knight.

Yoda quibbles with himself. He has raised diplomats, warriors, scholars, investigators.

He has never raised a farmer before.

In truth, he did very little of the work at all. Iara came to him an adult, a journeywoman in her field already, seeking to pick up the threads of a childhood that had promised more – a greater connection to the universe, a greater expansion of her sense of self, a deeper understanding.

He feels he has given her so little, and yet, she has accomplished so much.

Ready, she is.

Ready,  _ he _ has not been.

Eight hundred years old, and he is ever made to feel foolish.

_ The learning, in truth, goes on forever, indeed. _

“Hm,” Yoda mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Don't mind me, just sitting here, cursing Qui-Gon Jinn, who was supposed to have part if not the entirety of this chapter, and yet refused to cooperate. Again. 
> 
> aaaaaaaaaaaaaahdlfkjg'owi'jthlakdmfbLZGKMN. ugh.


	14. Chapter 14

A blurred shape behind him, a sharp, predatory exhalation, and the burning thrum of danger –

Qui-Gon flinches, panic and denial spiking at the memory of pain, the violent malice and burning heat-cold that had swallowed his breath and his entire being –

“Master Jinn – Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon –”

He sucks in a breath, shaking from head to toe, disoriented and sweat-soaked, his saber hilt biting into his hand for his fierce grip. The airy, light space of the training salle slowly lurches back into focus, and Qui-Gon looks at Master Bondera, who is still calmly trying to call him back to his senses, not yet having picked himself up off the floor from having been thrown against the wall in an uncontrolled burst of Force pressure.

Because Qui-Gon had panicked.

Self-recrimination boils out of his gut and floods him, making him feel ill, and Qui-Gon disengages his lightsaber, mouth dry. “Master Bondera, I am so –”

“No apologies, Master Jinn,” the brawny twi’lek battlemaster picks himself up, grimacing only faintly, and Qui-Gon feels apologies  _ are _ needed. The man’s head is bleeding, one lek already purpling with a swelling bruise. “Though I will have to request we pause here.”

“Of course,” Qui-Gon agrees with mortified haste.

Bondera nods, looking him over with sharp red eyes as he crosses the salle and fetches the first aid kit. The twi’lek does him the kindness of looking away to rifle through its contents before addressing Qui-Gon, who prefers not to look him – or anyone – in the eye when discussing his… difficulties.

“You startled badly this time,” Bondera remarks neutrally, “Is all well?”

Qui-Gon has struggled with that particular situation – a lightsaber too close at his back – since they had started working together. His healers tell him it is a natural reflex, given the trauma of what happened, but it grieves Qui-Gon deeply that this, this simple thing, he still cannot control.

Like so much else.

His healer has broached the idea of having the memory suppressed, but the attempts to do so had met with… unusual ineffectiveness. Both from Qui-Gon’s own obstinate reluctance with inviting another person so close to his innermost self and because it is not exactly a conscious memory. He cannot find in his mind the details of the memory, the tangible experience of it, but the  _ feeling _ of that moment; the fear, the pain, the malice,  _ dying _ – it remained indelible and intextractable, as stubborn as the warped, silky scars on his torso.

A possible side-effect, the healers proposed, of the technique which was used to heal him.

Qui-Gon has resolutely refused any requests they had to inquire with Knight Kenobi as to his experience in the matter. The boy had saved his life and was stricken enough that he had not done so better than he had, as if Qui-Gon had any right to have expected more than that – to have expected even that much. No, he’d rather  _ not _ give the young man another reason to shirk from his person.

“As well as I can expect it to be,” Qui-Gon replies tiredly. He has ceased his midnight sojourns, in light of Bondera’s quite rigorous day-time regimen and because his healers had about stripped his hide with scolding when finding out how inconsistent his sleep schedule was. There had been lectures, numerous and severe, on the direct connection between lack of sleep and the severity and persistence of his TSR symptoms.

Still, he does not sleep easily. Lying there in his bed at night, the numbness of his surroundings seems to build and build until it is a suffocating pressure. The absence of the Force in his senses wakes in him a deep, paralytic dread.

He  _ misses _ it.

He tries to distract himself from it, to keep his thoughts occupied, to keep his person occupied. He practices grounding exercises with his remaining senses and attempts to keep them engaged, but he cannot do so every second of the day, and when he can’t –

A piercing chirp recalls him to the present moment, and both Qui-Gon and Bondera look bemusedly to the sharp beaked reptilian head that is rising above the nest Pip has made of Qui-Gon’s robe. The little pins on the back of the dwarf varactyl’s head have started giving way to red plumage, contrasting brightly with his jewel blue hide, and Pip is rapidly outgrowing the incubator, both in need for it and in size.

Pip is also, it appears, exceptionally attuned to his mood.

Or else just hungry.

Most likely hungry.

The little varactyl nearly exceeds his padawan in appetite.

“I should see myself out,” Qui-Gon turns to Bondera, wincing at the sight of the twi’lek dabbing blood from the split in his skull.

“Might I offer you advice?” the battlemaster inquires.

Qui-Gon stifles to reflex to complain that everyone did, whether Qui-Gon wished it or not. Bondera was a courteous but stern instructor, and for all that he treated Qui-Gon with cordial respect, they were not particularly  _ that _ familiar with one another. All told, Master Anoon Bondera was a rather aloof and self-contained individual, which, oddly, allowed him and Qui-Gon to get on quite well. It was not that he did not pry into Qui-Gon’s business, it was that he truly did not put any mind to it aside from what they must address directly in their training.

Which is perhaps why Qui-Gon is so wary of such an inquiry now.

“If you must,” Qui-Gon nods cautiously. Bondera smiles faintly, an almost non-existent expression. Even for those with the Force, the man was difficult to read. But then, he was a practitioner of Teräs Käsi, which is exactly why Qui-Gon was here.

“Your situation is exceptionally peculiar,” Bondera states, which is, of course, obvious. “I have never heard of a similar case, wherein a Master Force-User lost their perception, but not their abilities, of the Force. I think it would have been considerably simpler had you been cut off completely,” the twi’lek stately blandly, unphased by Qui-Gons flinch, “Since you have not, however, I believe you ought to not only train to work without the Force, but with it as it remains to you as well.”

“It does not remain to me,” Qui-Gon retorts, tone coarse.

The battlemaster eyes him mildly before returning to measuring out a strip of flesh-plast to seal the split skin on the back of his head. “My skull would beg to differ, Master Jinn.”

Qui-Gon blanches, Pip nudging his hand insistently with his beak until he scratches at the itchy pin-feathers along the varactyl’s neck.

“Your inability to perceive the Force is not representative of your inability to influence the Force,” red eyes look back up with blunt pointedness, “I would suggest, Master Jinn, finding someone you trust to help you determine  exactly how much influence remains to you, and under what conditions.”

It is not the first time a similar suggestion has been made.

It is the first time he doesn’t dismiss it out of hand as deluded and painful optimism.

It is just…

It would require baring the depth of this wound to someone other than his Soul Healer, it would require relying intimately upon them, and that was… difficult.

That had always been difficult, this was just elevating it to a further extreme. Qui-Gon has not so completely relied on another person since he was a padawan, and as for trust –

Well.

~*~

His healer considers the thoughts Qui-Gon has laid out while sipping a cup of tea, and Qui-Gon, meanwhile, makes a study of the pale blue ceiling.

“You have a lifetime of dedication to the Force. Most of your use of it is as natural to you as breathing – the way you think, focus, feel. Each of these was honed to your compatibility with the Living Force, Qui-Gon, so no, it is not far fetched to believe that with the right discipline, you can expect some measure of influence to remain, even if you yourself can’t perceive it.”

“But enough to be a Jedi again?” he mutters without forethought.

His healer scowls ferociously, and Qui-Gon is glad he elected to have this conversation with them, and not with Master Yoda, who would be far more inclined to whack him with his gimer stick in an instance such as this.

“Qui-Gon Jinn, you  _ are _ a Jedi, or have you resigned from this Order in a manner I don’t know about?”

Qui-Gon shifts in his seat, grimacing internally. His healer sighs.

“Had I the authority I’d assign you recitations,” they mutter, “In handstands.”

Qui-Gon scoffs.

Which earns him a stern look.

“You came here today for my opinion, and my opinion has not changed; you must make an effort, Qui-Gon, and push every boundary you can to discover where they truly are, and not merely where you believe them to be. The limitations you have imposed upon your existence in your mind are far more severe than those that have been imposed upon you by your present circumstances.”

“It is not so simple,” Qui-Gon utters helplessly.

“I know,” his healer replies sympathetically, “It never is so simple as it sounds, but it is not, I think, so impossible as you fear either. I’ve told you before to allow yourself failure, Qui-Gon. You have nothing to lose by failing, Qui-Gon, but so much you could gain.”

“It isn’t failure I fear.”

“Isn’t it?” his healer inquires, “If it isn’t, then what is it you’re afraid of?”

Qui-Gon swallows, and allows himself to be painfully honest. “Disappointment and shame.”

It isn’t the effort that scares him. It’s the vulnerability.

His healer takes a quiet moment, thinking it over, and Qui-Gon sinks into the back of his seat, braced and trepidatious.

“I will not be so blithe as to simply say you have survived worse, Master Jinn, but I want you to ask yourself if, in light of everything else, you truly find those to be the limit of what you can bear. It’s alright if it is – a person can only bear so much, and you have certainly borne your share, Qui-Gon, but it is something you need to consider so that you can make your decisions clearly. Even if you are never quite able to explain such matters to others – it is important that you are least able to explain them to yourself; the things you do, and why you do them. If it is too much, it is too much. It is alright, and we can accept that and let it go. But if it is not…” his healer trails off, holding his gaze, and Qui-Gon looks down.

“Then allow myself to try and fail,” he recites, earning a pleased, supportive smile.

“Precisely.”

~*~

“Master Jinn.”

He freezes, brow pinching, and turns slowly to Master Gallia, who gives him the look of someone who knows full well he has been avoiding her and isn’t amused.

“Master Gallia,” he greets, feeling Pip rustle in the hood of his robe, little claws pricking through his shirt.

“Master Fay requires a substitute instructor for elementary Force Empathy,” she states bluntly, striding up to him.

“I’ll have to decline,” Qui-Gon replies a bit stiffly, well aware that he has also been avoiding Master Fay, and may have deliberately left his communicator in his padawan’s robe packet just before she went off-world with Master Fisto.

“Oh?” Master Gallia arches a brow, crossing her arms and clearly awaiting a defensible explanation.

“You must be aware I am presently unsuitable,” he forces the words out.

She gives him a flat, unimpressed look, and Qui-Gon wonders how the younger master can be so formidably imposing even without the sense of the Force and the grounded, blazing corona that had been her presence.

“In so far as I am aware, the class is taught with tookas you are personally responsible for bringing into this temple and with whose temperaments you are intimately familiar. The results of success or failure on behalf of your students should be obvious.”

She’s come prepared for his arguments, clearly. Qui-Gon grits his teeth and draws himself up. Adi Gallia lifts her chin, shoulders falling back a little, matching him bearing for bearing.

Then, suddenly, she blows out a breath and appears to relent. Qui-Gon relaxes fractionally, pleased she has seen reason.

Which is, of course, when she delivers the real attack.

“If you refuse to utilize your great study of the Force, as if blindness has somehow sucked the knowledge from your head, very well,” she regards him coolly, “There are other courses in need of instructors – Health and Relationships is always available.”

_ Health and _ –

He balks.

No, he is most certainly  _ not _ teaching that again.

Adi Gallia does not smirk, but it’s a near thing, as she can clearly see the quailing defeat rising in his eyes. She softens the blow.

A bit.

“You do not have the luxury of lazing about, Qui-Gon Jinn, we need every Jedi Master we’ve got,” she says, not unkindly, “and that includes you. It’s about time you returned to work.”

Qui-Gon swallows a prickly retort that he’s hardly been  _ lazing about, _ between undertaking a thorough review of his padawans studies and assisting in both garden maintenance and Temple logistics – but he knows what she’s really implying – that aside from his duties to his padawan, the rest is the work of retirees and the infirm and the grounded, and that he is not what she considers to be any of the above.

He has avoided any assignment which required actual investment and commitment, still quietly convinced that the life he knew was over, and that he had little place is feigning otherwise.

However, that was not an opinion those around him seem to share.

_ They don’t grasp, _ he thinks,  _ how terribly difficult it was simply to function, even still. _

Sian no longer has to strip his sheets to keep him from wallowing in bed, but he can hardly get through an hour without tripping over some habit or some reminder that he can no longer sense the Force, be it for trying to reach out to his padawan or to some struggling sapling in the gardens or even just to bask and breathe in the energy around him to relieve his fatigue only  _ it is not there. _

_ It is not there, and it won’t ever be again. _

He can resign himself to moments without it, to the absence in his present, but when it strikes him that this is permanent, that  _ this is what it will be like for the rest of his life – _

“Qui-Gon?” Master Gallia grasps his elbow, and Qui-Gon blinks, head aching. In his hood, Pip lets out a faint, scratchy trill, squirming about. His tail flops out, curling over Qui-Gon’s shoulder, and Gallia’s gaze flickers to it briefly.

“I’ll take the Force Empathy rota,” Qui-Gon mutters. If he was only a substitute, then there would be someone taking over to correct his shortcomings, at least.

“Are-“ she stops herself, belatedly, from asking if he was alright. Her brow wrinkles slightly, brown skin creasing violet, and squeezes her grip on his elbow instead. The look in her eyes is one of pity, and he doesn’t even begrudge her for it. He abhors nothing so much as the idea that any of them are not horrified at the thought of what has happened to him, at what it would be like if they were to suffer as such. For a Jedi to be cut off from the Force was a thing of nightmares. “Are you available after the dinner bell?”

Qui-Gon blinks and furrows his brow. “Pardon? For teaching?”

That was an unusual time for a course such as –

“No, not that,” Master Gallia shakes her head, hair pods shifting, “Mace has tickets to the opera and I have bets to obfuscate.”

Qui-Gon eyes her. “You  _ don’t _ want to go to the opera with Mace?”

Her lips quirk. “I didn’t say how  _ many _ tickets.”

Qui-Gon huffs out an appalled laugh. “So you want  _ me _ to join the two of you on a date to the opera?” he clarifies.

“For the record,” Adi Gallia states archly, “I want you to be present  so as to call into question whether or not the outing constitutes a date . Also I need someone to explain the nuances to me, because you know he will be too enraptured to do so while the stage is live.”

Qui-Gon considers it. “My padawan would be furious with me,” he remarks, knowing that there was a great deal of plotting to set Mace and Master Gallia up or else catch them out.

“Your point?” Master Gallia remarks, brows lifting.

_ My point is that the more irked she is with me the more torridly she describes my person in her mission reports and _ –

And he is not currently serving missions with his padawan.

Qui-Gon reconsiders it.

“My evening is free.”

“Excellent, wear something nice.”

“My robes are perfectly –”

“Wear something nice,” she repeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: *screeching*
> 
> I just broke a million words and did not spontaneously combust.
> 
> Also, like, kudos to everyone who has made it this far with me, whether you were here from the first and have been dragged along with me day to day or you came along later and blazed through this on a trail of sleep deprivation and glee. (Almost) Two years and one million words.
> 
> And so many words to go.


	15. Chapter 15

“A student inclined to the Living Force, I would have to say you are _not_ , Disciple Othos,” Qui-Gon remarks dryly, holding a hissing tooka away from a mulish, affronted chagrian teenager.

Another teenling snickers to their left, Disciple Othos friend, from their ceaseless and not entirely conductive banter throughout the lecture and the practical lesson that followed. That one’s tooka was purring contentedly, curled calmly on the floor in front of the teen who had been assigned to it.

Around the room, Disciples and Padawans alike were having various measures of success in establishing a calm, empathetic connection with the cohort of mousers and rescues Qui-Gon and other Jedi had errantly adopted and brought home. A few had to chase after their charges, when the felines took to boredom or affront and meandered away from hapless learners.

So far, there had been a few raised hackles and skittish darts across the room, but Disciple Otho was the only one who had erred so badly as to get himself scratched.

“I just tried to get it to sit down! I wasn’t trying to hurt it!” the disciple says defensively, a flush on his face.

“I told you you were being too direct,” his friend chimes in, and Qui-Gon silences him with a terse look and a faint pursing of lips. The boy shuts up but utterly uncontritely.

“How else am I supposed to get it to sit down?” the chagrian teenager huffs, crossing his arms in no small amount of embarrassment. He was one of the older members of this particular class, and no doubt the failure therefor stung more keenly to see those years younger succeeding where he had not.

Qui-Gon sighs, rubbing at the grey-furred ears of the tooka in his possession until it’s hackles slowly lowered and the hissing subsided to grumbles. “Would you respond better, Disciple Othos, were I to ask you to take a seat, or were I to put a hand on your head and manhandle you to the floor?”

“Er….” The teen looks up uncertainly, as if expecting Qui-Gon might actually attempt to do so.

Qui-Gon shakes his head. “What you seek to establish is not a conquest, but an overture. Be calm, and they will be calm in turn, be forceful… and as you can see, you will have forceful results. It is no different than any other negotiation, save that you cannot win it with words or reason – our little friends here have no use for such things.”

“I’ll… try again, Master Jinn,” the disciple nods, uncrossing his arms to reach for the tooka, which goes still, ears folding flat. Qui-Gon pulls back.

“You may be willing, but this one isn’t. Try again with your friend there, since he appears to have the right approach – and a companion less likely to require you to later attend the Halls of Healing,” Qui-Gon instructs.

The scratches on the chagrians arm, after all, are still oozing a little.

Pulling a face, lethorns bunching, the chagrian nods and turns, his friend looking a little less enthused at the slightly vengeful look he was receiving for his prior teasing. Qui-Gon leaves them to it, scratching under the tooka’s chin until it was roused into purring, a ratchety, scratchy sound that had Pip climbing up over his shoulder, claws snagging at every step, to investigate, chirping curiously.

Qui-Gon will grudgingly admit to himself, after having taught three successive lessons now, that Adi Gallia had not been wrong, and that teaching this lesson came easier than he expected. He may not have the Force to guide him, but he had not been rendered blind in every aspect. He knew the mannerisms to look for, where a narrowed eye or a turned back from a tooka whispered of peace and trust, where a flicking tail might measure a warning, flattened ears and rising hackles necessitating an intervention and a little more coaching on the philosophy of the lesson, and the best mindset for its approach.

Qui-Gon has always been good with animals.

People, perhaps less so.

He appreciates, deeply, that no one has yet come around to mutter ‘ _I told you so’_ at him.

Bad enough that his padawan had looked too watery-eyed, when he’d mentioned – perhaps complaining a tad too much – on their last holo-call that he _was_ teaching such lessons. He’d quickly steered the conversation back to her adventures, in the dear hopes of avoiding anything too emotional on either of their parts, and received a lively account of Master Fisto’s two feisty mikkian padawans getting caught up in a robbery which, through a convoluted series of events even Sian’s oratory talents couldn’t quite have him keeping up with, involving a smuggler and a minister’s husbands scandalous affair, led to them accidentally thwarting a government coup.

Their assignment had been to simply follow up on a claim of misappropriation of governmental resources.

Such, however, was the luck of Jedi.

~*~

Obi-Wan tosses awake, not certain he was entirely asleep to begin with, in the middle of another restless night.

These restless nights are starting to wear at him.

He spends hours a day working with Asajj and Depa on Daosaan, and has no small amount of aches and bruises to prove it, in spite of switching from glass pearls to water in an effort to help his companions visualize better the flow of energy they were trying to hone between them. He had come to realize that the way he conceptualized the Force, and the way Asajj conceptualized the Force, and the way Depa did, were all very different, and where he and his master could translate an understanding between them with effortless ease in discussion and debate, it was not so easy with others. Another stumbling block to account for and overcome, he supposes.

Still, the hours of effort there, and trekking up and down the archives, and running a few small errands for the council, exhausting though they were, could not seem to weigh down the vague, frustrating uneasiness of his dreams that followed him into wakefulness, like there was something he was supposed to grasp, something he was supposed to understand.

He flips upright and glowers at the spirit-lure, its soft blue glow shimmering against the glass mosaic of the ceiling. He’s tried, at times, to meditate under it, to reach out, seeking out those whispers at the edge of his mind, the fog of too many echoes to make out a single one clearly…

He’s caught Lady Livion’s attention that way more than once, but she doesn’t grace him with her presence. He sought her out to speak about ghosts, too, but she’d mocked him for thinking he would find his answers here in the Temple, as if they knew more and not less than they had a thousand years before, and riled him into a temper before leaving him with only one hostile confirmation – yes, there were ghosts in the Force.

“It isn’t their existence that proves impossible,” she’d hissed with scathing bitterness, “ it’s bridging the distance between their existence and ours that makes it as if they do not exist at all. They leave us behind.”

She hates his pity for her more than anything, and her voice at broken at that, and so even incensed as she had made him, he had looked at her with pity, and so she had vanished then.

Obi-Wan scrubs tiredly at his face, feeling a bit of bristle on his cheeks as he does, and he has to be more vigilant about shaving, these days. He huffs and then sighs, flipping the blankets aside and placing his feet on the floor, which is cold and wakeful.

His quarters are quiet – empty, save for him, of course, still a bit hollow-feeling for the newness, for the lack of a patina of memory of force-touched impressions in the walls that a truly lived-in place had.

Usually, on the rare nights he’d been so restless before, he’d shuffle across his quarters and bother his master, if nothing else.

But he doesn’t live with Ben anymore, and as familial and understanding as their relationship was, Ben probably would not appreciate it if his grown padawan – his young knight, now – kept bursting into his bedroom in the middle of the night.

Fay even less so.

Still, Obi-Wan would like to sleep tonight, given that he was due to depart with Siri and Quinlan tomorrow, and that wasn’t happening here at present-

Struck with an idea, Obi-Wan tugs his monochromatic comforter over his shoulders, gets up, and steps into shadow.

Quinlan, unlike Obi-Wan, has no intention of sharing his hard-earned private space with a padawan, now or in the future. For the sake of the psychometrics sanity, as well as that of his future padawan, that is probably wise.

As such, his quarters are smaller than Obi-Wan’s, both in having only the single bedroom, and in general living space. It had taken some effort to find them, but Quinlan wasn’t exactly making _that_ big of a secret out of it. Located on the reopened lower living levels, instead of a window, Quinlan’s outer wall was comprised, floor to ceiling, of a faintly luminous aquarium. The furnishings were really more a lack thereof – woven floor matts under a kneeling table and one giant lounge cushion that almost ate the person who settled down on it but was, from Obi-Wan’s experience, exceptionally comfortable.

Obi-Wan shamelessly bypassed the living area – and the bedroom door – and ducks a pillow to the face that Quinlan throws without rolling over.

“It can _not_ be morning yet,” Quinlan growls a compliant, burrowing into his pillow.

“It isn’t,” Obi-Wan replies cheerily, sauntering up to the bed and flopping down across Quinlan’s back, earning a grunt of complaint for his weight.

“Would you – you have a bed of your own,” Quinlan elbows him and turns, shoving him over until Obi-Wan hits the wall, and then flops back down. Obi-Wan takes that as permission to settle in – Quinlan could just as easily have shoved him off the bed, after all.

“My bedroom feels haunted,” Obi-Wan replies, tugging his comforter around until he’s covered and moving Quinlan’s elbow out from under his ribcage.

Quinlan snorts and turns his head, cracking open an eye. “I think Ventress cursed that thing she gave you.”

“You know, it had occurred to me,” Obi-Wan replies. “But I don’t think she hates me that much.”

He knows, really, that she doesn’t hate him at all.

His accrued bruises for training with her notwithstanding.

“Mnphff,” Quinlan rumbles unintelligibly. “Jus’ don’t snore or I’ll smother you.”

“You’re so sweet,” Obi-Wan grins. “So generous and compassionate, it’s a wonder –“

Quinlan shoves a pillow over his face, and Obi-Wan laughs before stealing it and tucking it under his head. “Thanks, Que.”

Quinlan only half mutters some reply, and Obi-Wan lets it rest, tiredness pulling at his eyes. Quinlan’s quarters, like his own, feel somewhat sterile, but that sensation is soothed by Quinlan’s presence itself, by the warmth leeching through the blankets and the quiet rasp of his muffled breath against his pillow. Quinlan is alive and substantial, radiating the energy that is unique to himself, and it makes the frustrating vagueness prickling around the edges of Obi-Wan senses fade into unimportance.

The soft pulse of contentment from the bond he shares with his friend lulls him into sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

“Who the _frip_ taught you two to fly?” Quinlan demands, ashen-faced and jittery with loosed tension from the death grip he’d had on his seat.

Siri and Obi-Wan give him identically unrepentant, guileless looks. “My master,” they both say, speaking separately of separate persons, Siri’s tone just a bit more crisp and hostile than Obi-Wan’s slightly sheepish acknowledgement.

Alderaan greets them with a golden, hazy sunrise sparkling off a low mist in the valley, and the sharp crooning of some kind of hidden waterfowl over the barking croak of frogs. The air is brisk, but quickly warming, and all three coruscanti jedi take pause and lean into the embrace of that fresh air and untampered glow of the Living Force that suffuses every dewdrop and blade of grass.

Siri takes a deep breath and then sneezes.

And then sneezes four more times in quick succession.

“Are you alright?” Obi-Wan inquires, grinning.

“That was _adorable_ ,” Quinlan teases, his smile a flash of brightness in his brown face.

Siri glowers at them both and jabs Quinlan in the ribs hard enough to bruise, making him squawk before she stalks ahead towards to the Temple, her heated irritation a bit more than just superficial. There was a touch of bitterness in the look she had cast Quinlan, and the boys don’t hasten to keep up, giving her space.

Obi-Wan leans in towards Quinlan, brows raised. “Aren’t you supposed to be trying to get into her good graces?”

Quinlan’s face does a complicated twist of expression, and then the kiffar shrugs. “I’m still me. It’s not real if we can only reconcile when I’m pretending to be other than I am. Besides – Siri, having good graces? Obi-Wan, you _know_ this girl.”

“She can be gracious,” Obi-Wan insists.

Quinlan snorts and rubs at the saffron yellow stripe over his nose, mouth pulling down as he looks after Siri disappearing into the temple doors.

“Let’s hope so,” he mutters.

~*~

Obi-Wan gets attacked from the ceiling, a hard knee knocking into his cheek before hands yank on his shoulders and scrawny, strong arms wrap around his neck, choking him.

Obi-Wan stops himself at _the last possible second_ from throwing them over his shoulder in a very abrupt and very violent reflex.

“ _Anakin Skywalker_!” he bellows, puffing as he yanks on sharp elbows to free his throat from a strangling grapple, hauling the boy up onto his shoulder, earning a grunted ‘oof!’

Unfortunately, this distraction opens him up to further attack, as Jax, Etain, and Codi all charge and pelt full-body into him until he falls backwards, sacrificing his tailbone in an effort to stop himself from dropping Anakin on his head – or worse, crushing him. Obi-Wan was in armor – it would _hurt_.

“Why?” He demands defeatedly, as they pile on, giggling and breathless, Jax’s knee pressing into Obi-Wan’s stomach as the younger Skywalker boy lifts his arms in victory, giving a wide grin and revealing a gap in his teeth where one had come out.

“Bragging rights,” Etain Tur-Mukan replies utterly unapologetically, bright eyed and grinning where she’s perched on his leg. Codi Ty, a tad more timid, nods smartly beside her, his chubby, pale-striped lekku finally starting to catch up up to the rest of the young togruta’s growth. Someday, Obi-Wan thinks, the boy is going to be very tall and it is not going to be so easy to duck shyly behind his friends.

“Oh?” Obi-Wan inquires, zeroing in on the girl after giving Jax and playful push, toppling the boy back. Anakin wriggles free and presses into Obi-Wan’s side, hugging him around the ribs.

All four children nod.

Obi-Wan huffs. “What are you, bounty hunters? It was hardly a fair fight, you know. You ambushed me.”

“We used superior tactics against a stronger opponent. Where outright power fails, skill prevails.” Etain enunciates with lofty, confident airs, putting closed fists on her hips and striking a pose of superiority.

“I see someone is taking Introduction to Strategy,” Obi-Wan remarks, shifting his leg and nudging the girl – sitting upon it – off-balance.

“Top of my class,” she beams proudly, golden-green eyes gleaming. Obi-Wan indulges her with an amused smile.

“Well, congratulations then, but perhaps you can spare my dignity now and let me up.”

“Dignity not spared,” Anakin denies, still clinging to him like a limpet. Obi-Wan huffs and stands anyways, letting the younglings fall off as they would.

“If that’s the case, then maybe I shan’t take you to Ilum,” he remarks with feigned disapproval, crossing his arms and turning his face away, watching their startled, sparkling reactions through the corner of his eye.

He was prepared for Anakin’s screech of delight – not Codi’s piercing togrut whistle. Everyone claps their hands over their ears, and Codi claps his over his mouth, but he’s clearly still grinning delightedly, juvenile fangs on full display behind the edges of his earthy-red fingertips.

~*~

“Twenty-one?” Siri repeats in risen alarm, eyeing the assembled cohort of initiates due for their lightsaber crystals with something bridging towards panic.

In Siri’s experience, groups taken to Ilum typically consisted of less than twelve younglings.

Twenty-one was – twenty-one was _preposterous_!

“It is a long trip to make, and requires at least a knight _and_ a padawan in these times. There have been delays.” Master Zaska, the burly trandoshan Master of Initiates, explains serenely, eyeing the girl.

Siri Tachi stares back at her.

Siri Tachi, confined to a single ship, with twenty-one younglings and _Quinlan Vos_ , for nearly two tendays.

She was going to lose her mind.

Her master was surely punishing her, and Siri knew precisely why. Outraged, she shoots Quinlan a venomous look, and her heart hammers at the flicker quick _surprise-hurt-guilt_ that he quickly buries under a disgruntled scowl and a challenging lift of his brow. She jerks her gaze away from him, fingernails digging into her palms where her fingers where tightly curled.

Her gaze lands on Obi-Wan, who glances between the two of them with an all too seriously contemplative look, catching her gaze only briefly before it smooths away into a bland smile that is as utterly impassive as his shields.

Siri crosses her arms, frowning, and looks away.

She had accepted Quinlan Vos’s petition to attempt to regain her friendship, sure, because she wasn’t callous enough to cut their friend circle into pieces just because she was – what? _Hurt_? About something he’d done as part of a cover?

She should forgive him. She knows it would be the proper, Jedi thing to do, it’s just…

That hurt, angry and bewildered, had sat in her chest like a live coal for almost two years, whenever she thought of Quinlan Vos, whenever her thoughts strayed, wondering where he was, worrying about what he was up to, out there alone – striking hot and sharp whenever she remembered the cold look on his face, the derision and scorn in his voice when he left –

Leaving her gritting her teeth and curling around that pain and feeling like a fool, for the mockery her feelings for him had made of her.

How utterly pointless it was, in the end, with the truth so simply passed along to her – that Quinlan, her friend, her first crush, who had helped her feel like herself again after the disaster that had been her mission to Rhost, hadn’t meant any of those cruel things at all. He’d just been doing his duty, and a few lies and a little acting were necessary to do that.

He’d even _apologized_.

But Siri, well – she was prickly and stubborn and always a little too prideful. She just couldn’t seem to let it go.

She should. She even thinks she wants to. She just.

Doesn’t know _how_.

Her feelings all tangle up in her head, defying reason, and logic, and desire, snarling into a knot she can’t unravel.

It’s proven distracting, and unmitigatedly frustrating, and Siri isn’t naive enough to think there is anything coincidental in being given an assignment with Obi-Wan and Quinlan, not when Quinlan was the object of her current unresolved feelings and Obi-Wan has _already_ served as an arbitrator between them.

Siri has clearly tried more than just her own patience to its wit end. Master Gallia has made that clear enough; even if Siri wanted to spend the entire trip fastidiously ignoring Knight Vos, she was hardly going to manage to do so _and_ out-stubborn Obi-Wan Kenobi’s tenacity at the same time.

Talk about a rock and a hard place.

Siri is torn between feeling relieved or feeling galled.

~*~

“Hmm…” Master Yoda warbled in his throat, long and low and contemplative, yet again, observing other members of the council as they clustered into conversations, wrapping up stray thoughts as the days session closed and the few last minutia of details were squared away.

Master Dooku, a pinch in his brow as there ever was with Master Sifo-Dyas’s worryingly increasing absences, was in quiet conversation with Master’s Ti and Rancisis.

Master Gallia was fielding a three-way debate between herself, Master Koon, and Master Fisto, the sardonic lilt in her brow broadcasting that she was fully aware of – and navigating with ease – the underlying tone of teasing they were both plying her with, too pleased by half that she has finally accepted her place in this chamber and trying (yet failing) to whittle out of her the reason as to why she has finally acquiesced at last.

Still seated, Fay and Master Windu are both leaning towards each other - Fay half sprawled in leisure, Mace scooted to the very edge of his seat and kept from toppling by a strategically placed elbow – both with their gazes riveted to datapad, voices carrying softly in direct tones as the details of some issue or another were picked apart for clarity and consensus.

“Hmm…” Yoda hums contemplatively again.

A stick prods him in the side, and his ears twitch as he rasps a sound of protest before turning a wizened eye on an unrepentant Yaddle as she so demurely clasps her claws around the reed pole in question. “Noisy, you are,” she remarks. “Attention, do you require?”

Yoda grumbles. He is not a pouty youngling.

“Share your thoughts, will you?” Yaddle prods again – this time without the stick. Yoda looks upon her face, familiar for these long centuries shared between them. She is, in many ways, his oldest friend. His grandmaster, Fay may be, but far fewer were the years they were together among the jedi, than were the years they were apart. Yaddle, however, he has known since she herself was a youngling, since he himself went on Search for the next of his people to serve the Jedi. She knows him as well as he knows her. That is a comfort he has not often contemplated the depth of.

“Time it is, I think,” Yoda remarks, nodding in satisfaction, looking over this chamber, these Jedi. “Knighted my padawan, I have. Elect a new Head of the Order, I intend to. Elect a new Grandmaster, I intend to,” he turns a slightly sly gaze on oblivious Masters Windu and Fay. “Needed, is a Master of the Creche. Retire to Alderaan, I will,” he declares quietly to her, pleased with himself as he looks over the fine Jedi before him and all they represent. “Grow beyond me, this Order will. Yes. Time, it is.”

Ben Naasade had given him a bitter gift, once. He had told Yoda with a certain definition how many years he might count on yet, and with the same breath told him what terrors those years might bring him.

Perhaps the progress they have made may yet avert those things which haunted the poor young man so heavily.

Perhaps.

Perhaps all they have done is still yet not enough. Perhaps there are dark days yet ahead.

Yoda has brooded over this for many a long night now, and he knows thus; war and darkness may lay ahead him, but for whatever moment he has now, whatever peace – he will cherish it.

He will step down. He will see for himself what bright futures there are ahead, he will give them everything he can, until he is called upon at the precipice, or until the calamity those who _know_ are now quietly expecting simply never occurs.

“Announce this, when will you?” Yaddle inquires, looking to him with sage understanding, and a little joy on his behalf, and a little sadness on her own.

“Announce?” Yoda repeats. “Announce, shall I?” he huffs, ears flicking. “Clever enough, are they not? Going, I am. Gone, I will be. What need for _announcing_ , is there?”

Yaddle offers him a pinched, long-suffering look, and grumbles. “Amuse yourself, I suppose you must,” she mutters. “Indulge you, I should not.”

But she does.


	17. Chapter 17

If Siri had been worried about her personal problems cropping up on this trip, she had been so, so delusional. Her uncertainty about how to resolve things with Quinlan, and the nauseating anxiety of trying to anyway? Her reluctant wariness about Obi-Wan’s intentions, and maybe a teeny tiny grudge over the fact that he could fall so seamlessly back into friendship with Quinlan, the same way he so seamlessly fell back into friendship with her after their tempers cooled?

She does not have time for these worries.

She cannot spare the thoughts.

The younglings are polite and rather well disciplined. They have not thrown tantrums, started any fires, or tussled.

But six days in and they are always underfoot, and tugging on her sleeves, and asking questions, and getting lost exploring the carrier ship, and hungry, and whining about ‘fresher rotations, and-

“Can I start building my lightsaber now?!”

“Look at my designs-!”

“Can I pilot the ship?”

“Is it lunch time yet?”

“Do you know Shadow-Walking? Can you teach us Shadow-Walking?”

“Is it true you have to face an evil version of yourself on Ilum?”

“Is it true you have to climb a three-hundred foot ice wall?”

“Is it true that Knight Kenobi can beat Master Windu in a spar?”

“Is it true that Knight Vos is gonna take Aayla Secura on as a padawan when we get back? Is she gonna learn psychometry? Can I learn psychometry?”

"Does Master Gallia really improvise her speeches?"

"Are there really ice-mites on Ilum? Do we have to get checked when we come back?"

"Can we get there faster?"

"Can I fly the ship?"

"Can we -"

Siri is at her breaking point. She has survived starvation and imprisonment and beatings and _politics_ with more grace than she feels capable of at this moment, and she is going to _scream_.

She locks eyes with Quinlan, getting similarly interrogated from all sides, the younglings turning away from the terminals they are supposed to be using to – Siri doesn’t remember. Obi-Wan had just gently shooed twenty-one younglings in their direction and told them to make sure they were entertained, and Siri doesn’t know what, exactly, that was supposed to entail -

Quinlan looks spooked and equally overwhelmed, and she can tell from the look on his face that he is half a step away from shadow-walking through a bulkhead, risk of ending up in space be kriffed.

And this – when they are half a breath from panic or insanity – is when Obi-Wan will inevitably sweep in, clap his hands, and offer snacks and directives, brimming with ease and good cheer.

Siri wants to murder him.

He flashes his best dimpled smile at her, blue-grey eyes sparkling, and ushers the younglings towards the mess with a few quick words, flicking Anakin Skywalker on the ear when the boy attempts to climb on his back to be carried. The boy pouts for only a second before dashing ahead.

The younglings file out, leaving only manic energy and two stressed jedi behind in the room, and Obi-Wan quirks a brow at them both.

“What?” Siri snaps and Quinlan drawls.

They share a glance, startled and uncertain, and then turn their glowers back on Obi-Wan Kenobi, who has no right to not be suffering as they are.

His handsome face goes through a series on small twitches, the smug smile fading, the line of his brow firming, the light in his eyes turning less amused and more assessing. Eventually, he utters a soft sigh and gives a light shake of his head.

“I’m unimpressed,” he remarks, sounding it, and just a hint displeased too.

Siri snaps. “You-“

Obi-Wan, however, has been dealing with Siri’s temper for years, and in terms of sheer presence-

He cuts her a glance, and his voice overtakes hers without rising. “Why don’t the both of you take the rest of the day to relax. I can handle the younglings.”

Siri feels her temper curdle in her gut. It’s barely ship-board noon.

Across the room, Quinlan crosses his arms and scowls impressively.

Before either of them can respond, however, Obi-Wan turns and heads off towards the mess to supervise the Initiates, leaving Siri and Quinlan to stew in the remarks he’d left behind.

It did not feel like a reprieve.

“Prick,” Quinlan mutters. “No need to be so fripping uppy about it.”

Siri frowns. Quinlan was right- Obi-Wan’s attitude had been odd in its blaséness the past few days, foisting most of the engagement of the younglings upon her and Quinlan and then stepping back if not outright wandering off for most of the day, only coming back when they were their nerve were frayed to wits end and interceding effortlessly to take control of the situation – and the younglings – with an ease that clearly demonstrated he didn’t need either of them involved at all.

Granted, they were all assigned this mission, so it wouldn’t be fair to put most of it on Obi-Wan just because he was capable, but…

She’s never felt less supported by the red-head than she feels on this mission, being offered vague directives and then abandoned before she can ask clarifying questions.

Which can only be intentional. Obi-Wan is a lot of things - careless isn’t one of them.

It’s like he _wants_ her and Quinlan to struggle.

She eyes Quinlan, who is running a gloved hand through the cords of his dreadlocks and shaking it out like he can simply expel the tension.

“We could leave him on Ilum,” Siri mutters. Quinlan glances at her, startled for a fraction of a second before he smirks.

“Except then there would be no one to save us from the younglings,” Quinlan points out. “And I think I’d kind of miss him. Sometimes. A bit.”

“I didn’t say we’d leave him there _forever_ ,” Siri huffs, lips curving a bit. “Just long enough to get a little frosty.”

Quinlan snorts, head dipping down and nose crinkling in the familiar way it has for as long as she’s known him. She used to delight in teasing out exactly that reaction from him and Siri feels like a pit just rose in her throat.

Her sharp turn in emotion must broadcast, because the humor drops from his face as he looks up at her, and that wavering sorry uncertainty is back in his gaze, backed by an undercurrent of frustration.

Siri feels exactly the same way, and the padawan of the greatest orator in the Jedi Order has no idea what to say.

She doesn’t know what to say, and she doesn’t want to get angry with him because she doesn’t know what to say, so the only thing left is for her to leave, so she does that instead.

~*~

“How are we doing?” Obi-Wan inquires, once everyone is settled in the carrier ships mess hall.

He gets dramatic sighs and groans and small heads flopped down on lunch tables.

“Not good,” Initiate Ferus Olin replies, Anakin’s part-time rival and self-elected spokesperson for the group at his lunch-table. Anakin forgets their rivalry long enough to nod enthusiastically from the next table over, cheeks puffed up with the squash pastry he’d decided to devour whole.

“Oh?” Obi-Wan inquires, meeting various pairs of eyes as he peels a particularly stubborn-skinned wabu melon to divvy up.

“They won’t ask each other for help!” Xiaan Amersu, a blue-skinned twi’lek a little older than Anakin blurts out. “They don’t even talk to each other!”

“They wont even _look_ at each other, most of the time,” Ferus adds promptly, the stocky boy pulling a surprisingly stern frown for his age.

“I don’t think it’s working, Knight Kenobi,” Xiaan sighs forlornly. “They don’t want to work together at all, and Padawan Tachi gets _scary_ when she’s stressed.”

“I see,” Obi-Wan nods gently. “I’ll have to come up with a cleverer plan then, I suppose. I do appreciate your assistance and forbearance. They’re very stubborn, these friends of mine.”

Several younglings giggle, and Obi-Wan starts handing out slices of fruit, certain that fruit carving was not the intended purpose of the vibroknife he’d been gifted, but it served well enough.

“We could lock them in an escape pod together!”

Obi-Wan smirks at that, wondering if the younglings ever watched holodramas at the Temple of Chimes.

“Leave them on Ilum together! They’d have to work together to survive!”

 _Amusing_ , Obi-Wan thinks, _but a bit extreme_. And very likely to get him brutally maimed when they found their way back.

“We could do an apology circle?”

That – no. No, no, an apology circle worked well enough for resolving creche-clan conflicts, but Siri and Quinlan were not going to have their feelings out in _public_.

“Can’t you just tell them you want them to talk out their feelings?”

Obi-Wan smiles bittersweetly. “They are well aware that all anyone wants them to do is for them to talk out their feelings.”

“Yeah…but I meant, like, talk it out right _now_. Or, well, before we get back to the Temple?”

“Yeah, give them a deadline!”

“Yeah! They have to, or, or…. erm…. Or what?”

The younglings all glance around, nibbling on their lunches and muddling over how to appropriately censure an older knight and padawan. Obi-Wan watches with an amused smile teasing at his lips, snagging himself a pasty by using a bit of the Force to tug it out of Anakin’s hand before he eats them all and makes himself sick. He gives the boy a look, and earns grumpy rolled eyes before he obligingly eats something other than pastries.

Jax carefully draws himself back from his table and slips around to Obi-Wan’s side, tugging on his sleeve. Obi-Wan gives him the asked-for attention. The boy chews his lip for a moment, looks around nervously, and signs instead of speaking.

Obi-Wan hopes, deeply, that one day the boy’s scarring fear of speaking might fade, and he has made great progress, even if only his close friends can earn a word or two out of him, but they do manage without, as need be.

~ _Or they have to do the Ilum escort again,_ ~ he suggests. ~ _For a year_. ~

Jax is diabolical, Obi-Wan thinks.

“Oh that’s perfect,” Obi-Wan says, grinning proudly. Obi-Wan has no doubt that he can’t hold up to that threat if need be – not with Master Adi Gallia backing him up.

“What? What!”

“He says if they don’t do it then they have to do Ilum escort duty for a year.” Kai Justiss, the dark haired boy sitting on Obi-Wan’s other side and having been previously content not to be involved, translates dutifully.

“Why is that a punishment?” Ferus frowns, pouting a little. Kai’s dark brows tilt up at his crechemates inquiry.

“Because they’re _bad_ at it!” Etain chimes in, giggling.

“But practice makes you better,” Ferus insists, twisting to look at her. “They _should_ practice, so why is that a punishment?”

“Let’s just say,” Obi-Wan interjects, before the two can start an argument, given the way Etain whips around in her seat and Ferus’s expression turns mulish, “ that I believe it will provide sufficient motivation, and I thank all of you for your efforts and input.”


	18. Chapter 18

Quinlan raps lazily on the door to Obi-Wan’s cabin, receives no response, and raps again.

“C’mon, Obi, we need to land on Ilum and I’d rather you were in the pilots chair,” Quinlan drawls, thinking _he_ certainly wasn’t going to try and take over from Siri. If he even suggested it, she’d resist on principle.

Quinlan feels his lips twist, half amused and half…well. Something.

Obi-Wan has given them a deadline.

Obi-Wan has _threatened_ them – in the most friendly and serene way possible – to resolve their issues by the end of this trip.

Siri and Quinlan haven’t managed to be in the same space together without tensing and fidgeting since. Too long of that and he feels like clawing at the walls, but at least their red-headed, obnoxiously well-meaning friend has stopped siccing the younglings on them. Younger kids, Quinlan didn’t have a problem with – they took everything he said at face value and didn’t have too many complicated questions or feelings. Budding pre-tweens on the verge of graduating from the creche, however, had nothing _but_ overthought questions and anxieties. The mix of apprehension and excitement on absolutely every atom of this ship alone was enough to put him on edge.

He and Siri have made exactly zero progress, and it chafes. But Quinlan knows _he_ can’t be the one to force the issue. So he’s got to wait on Siri, who spooks every time he looks at her too long or too thoughtfully. He can tell by the clench of her jaw that she’s trying very, very hard not to lash out, even with all that tension and unease bristling beneath her skin.

In a way, he’d rather she did. He doesn’t want to have an argument, exactly – and he doesn’t think she does either – he’s not sure there’s really an _argument_ to be had, but…

It would feel better, to have something just _give_.

“Obi- _Wan_ ,” Quinlan mutters, and lets himself through the door regardless of an answer, when even a tug on their mental bond yields no results and feels about as effective as knocking on a forcefield.

Obi-Wan is sitting on the edge of the bunk, head buried in his hands, such a bulwark of mental shielding around him he was…. blurry, in the Force. “Er….. you alright?”

“…”

“Obi-Wan?” Quinlan takes a step forward, wagging his fingers. “Hel~lo?”

Obi-Wan breathes, very deep and very even, and Quinlan’s brow furrows. Sighing, the older jedi takes another step and lightly touches Obi-Wan’s shoulder, just between the seams of his chest-plate and pauldron. Obi-Wan startles a little, twitching. He doesn’t look up.

“I need a minute.”

Quinlan considers it. “How long have you been ‘needing a minute’ exactly? What’s wrong?”

Obi-Wan grumbles a little. “Since we entered the system. Nothing’s wrong, exactly, I’m just…adjusting. Ilum’s strong.”

Quinlan’s furrowed brow deepens, and he crosses his arms. He can feel the planet singing, sure – anyone with a lick of Force-Sensitivity could, this close to what was an ice-coated planet sized kyber conglomerate.

But it didn’t feel…oppressive, or painful, or whatever it was that had Obi-Wan holding such tight control.

“Obi-Wan…” Quinlan prods uncertainly.

“With the Cosmic Force,” Obi-Wan elaborates, finally lifting his head, brow pinched with concentration. “Can someone check on Jax, please?”

Quinlan is still turning over the focus on ‘ _Cosmic Force’_ , eyeing his friend with suspicion. Obi-Wan gives him an unimpressed look and comm’s Siri, having _her_ check on Jax. She reports that he seems a little spaced out, but Anakin is assuring her that his brother fine.

Obi-Wan nods faintly, relief lighting his eyes. Quinlan is scowling, and, apropos of unforthcoming answers, tugs off a glove and pokes his friend in the forehead.

What he gets is a reverberation, like the ringing of a bell, that starts as a simple chime and swells and swells, pushing outward, rolling across an expanse too far and too deep to fathom, too much to focus on and too much to ignore.

It’s disorienting, to say the least.

The Living Force felt often like beacons, all heat and light and source, warm and embracing, but finite. The Unifying Force was more like a tapestry, pulling on threads and catching glimpses of the images they’ll weave or have woven. They were power beyond what one being could hold, immense and overwhelming at times, but there was always a limit to it – you could only hold so much before it abated or your very self gave way, like a bottle overflowing, or else breaking.

There was nothing of a bottle in that brief glimpse, nothing holding it back, or holding Obi-Wan together.

A surge of sensation prickles across Quinlan skin, and he shifts uneasily, looking over the younger man in concern. “What happened to you? Since when…”

Obi-Wan gives him a wry look. “You’re not the only person in the galaxy, Que, who lets things in they weren’t prepared to. We all suffer our follies.”

“That was vague and unhelpful. You know what stupid thing I did that got me in over my head in the Dark Side of the Force – probably better than I do. What did _you_ do?” he can’t even think of the last time he heard of someone delving into the Cosmic Force. It wasn’t forbidden, exactly, but he hasn’t heard of a single padawan in living memory who was naturally strong in Cosmic Force that wasn’t coaxed to dedicate their studies to a different discipline instead, a weaker natural inclination or not.

Obi-Wan blows out a breath and holds out a hand for help up. Quinlan obliges, tugging him to his feet. “I went in too deep seeking an answer I didn’t know how to find,” Obi-Wan gives a little huff of a laugh. “I left my body behind and got possessed by an entity of the Comic Force.”

“Kriff,” Quinlan swears, dumbfounded. “Holy kriffing fuck, Obi-Wan, how did you-“

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “It didn’t really _want_ to posses me? I guess? I wasn’t really, you know, _there_ , so this is all second-hand information. But, you can’t host something primordially intrinsic to the Force and not be affected, you know, so” he shrugs. “It is what it is.”

Quinlan puts his hands on the younger mans shoulders, and gives him a shake.

“You,” he says grudgingly, and then doesn’t know what to say after that. What’s he supposed to do, scold him? Like _Quinlan_ has a leg to stand on there? “How do you get into these things?” he finally says, aggrieved. “Your luck is gonna run out one of these days, you know that, right?”

“It’s not _luck_ ,” Obi-Wan protests. “I will have you know it is all skill and stubbornness and having very good friends.”

“And the Force,” Quinlan tacks on dryly.

“And the Force,” Obi-Wan grins, though the pinch doesn’t quite leave his brow. “Are we ready to descend, then?”

“Is it a good idea for you to descend?” Quinlan retorts, though he realizes as he’s asking that getting a little closer to Ilum is a moot point, at this juncture. It’s not like the little crystals they carry with them, it was a karking _planet_. The yield of its influence on the Force surrounded them already. “Never-mind, can you go pilot please?”

“What’s wrong with Siri piloting?”

‘ _What’s wrong with Siri piloting’_ Quinlan mimics back, irritable. “Siri’s got as much grace in the atmosphere as a startled fish.”

“You know, there _are_ fish that fly.”

“ _Obi_ -Wan.”

~*~

“Oh, this is cold.”

Twenty-one younglings and the other two post-adolescent jedi all give the Mandalorian a look.

He huffs and huddles a little deeper in his fur-lined parka. “What? I spent the last year on a desert planet in a binary system. It was _hot_.”

“I thought a jedi knight could control their body temperature?” Xiaan pipes up, the rutian twi’lek shivering in her parka too, lekku carefully tucked deep inside her hood, and sounding very disappointed.

“To an extent, but to a greater extent it is simpler for a jedi to inure themselves to the feeling of unpleasant temperatures. Exposure to such temperatures can still do us harm, but we… disallow the distraction.” Obi-Wan explains.

“Why don’t you do that then?” Xiaan inquires.

Obi-Wan sighs a little, breath frosting in a cloud n front of his face, and Anakin snickers.

Anakin focuses on his footsteps as they trudge through the snow, used to it after a winter at the Temple of Chimes. Ji-Kest carefully picks his way across Anakin’s footprints, filing behind him and giving him a push when Anakin wobbles or gets stuck in a particularly soft patch of snow. Anakin was used to it.

His head snaps up when they enter the ice temple, frost-glittering statues towering above them, sunlight reflected so sharply from reflective crystals that the walls almost seemed to be made of white fire. It _was_ cold, and it was beautiful, and there was…something sacred underneath that he could _feel_. Something both wonderful and sad, as if this place... _missed_ them. Welcoming them even as it knew they’d leave, and all that would be left where their echoes.

The jedi had lived here once, after all, long before Ilum froze over.

He gets impatient when Siri speaks, explaining the ice caves, and that their experiences would be personal, and that they should not go in there with any expectations of what they might find. She speaks well, and her voice is pretty, but he feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin with anticipation, bouncing on his chilled toes.

Ji-Kest gasps when the frozen waterfall starts to flow, sunlight returning it, briefly, back to water.

“We’re going in alone?”

“Are you?” Quinlan turns the question around, smiling slyly, and the initiate who asked huffs. Ji-Kest grabs Anakin’s hand, and Anakin looks over, even as his brothers excitement spills over to him, as bright as the grin on his face.

‘ _Hurry up, Ani, let’s go_!’

‘ _You could lead, you know_ ,’ Anakin rolls his eyes, dragging his feet just to watch Ji-Kest huff about it. Ji-Kest rolls his right back and gives him a marching push.

All around them, Ilum sings.

~*~

“We’re going in circles,” Anakin complains, kicking a pebble of ice sulkily, hand still wrapped warmly around Ji-Kest’s. “This is so irritating!”

Ji-Kest bites his tongue and looks at the crossroads ahead of them again, hesitating. He knows what he needs to do, of course. If Anakin is going to find his crystal and Ji-Kest his own. He knows he needs to let go of his brother’s hand, and that they have to take separate paths.

Because his lies one way, and Anakin’s another, and they’ll never reach either if they don’t let each other go. They’ll just keep going back about, the path twisting around and around on itself no matter which way they turn.

He peeks at Anakin’s face, the (slightly) older boy glaring at the frosty path, sky blue eyes blazing, lips twisted in an impatient pout, his presence bearing weight against the ice around them as he grows more frustrated, making the ice creak slowly and crackle.

Anakin has his huff and turns, inevitably, as he always does, to Ji-Kest. “What do we try this time?” he asks.

Ji-Kest sighs, and tugs his hand free.

Or tries.

Anakin scowls and grips his hand harder. Ji-Kest looks at him, brown eyes meeting blue. Anakin stares back, hard and blazing, and then the harshness of his look crumples softly. “Do we have to?” he whines.

Ji-Kest goes to nod and stops. He can practically hear his heartbeat echo off the walls. There’s nobody else around. “Yes,” he says, soft.

Anakin takes a deep breath and nods, reluctantly letting go. He turns towards the crossroads, tucking his hands into his sleeves, twisting them about. “Which way do I go?” he asks, looking.

Ji-Kest gives him a _look_ , lifting a brow. ‘ _Anakin_.’

Ji-Kest _could_ tell him, because of course the psychic knew, and often-times he _did_ , because it was faster and easier than waiting for Anakin to figure it out.

But not for this.

Anakin’s mouth gives a twist, and he looks back at the crossroads, closing his eyes to focus.

“That way,” he says, slightly mulish about it, and then peeks at Ji-Kest for confirmation. Ji-Kest carefully does not confirm nor deny his supposition. Anakin gives an irritable huff and stomps towards his chosen direction. “I get it!” he insists, tossing his hands out in emphasis.

Ji-Kest grins at his back, crossing his arms smugly. ‘ _I’m sure you do_.’

‘ _Ugh!_ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: for those of you who forgot, or, I guess, don't read the Stories within a Story, Jax = Ji-Kest. Ji-Kest is the Amatakkan name Shmi gave him when she adopted him in the way of her people. So far, only the Skywalkers know/ use Ji-Kest, so it's only seen when we are in one of their perspectives.


	19. Chapter 19

Anakin laughs when he reaches a wall, looks up, and can see his singing crystal gleaming above him. He cranes his head back, thinking the angle of the wall not good for a Force-assisted jump, stamps his feet a little and rubs his mitten-covered hands together, warming them up a bit.

Nodding, the nine-year old eyes the cracks and imperfections in the icy face, picks his handholds, and starts climbing. There are lots of cliffs and trees to climb in the jedi’s valley on Alderaan, though the crechemaster’s don’t much _like_ them climbing the cliffs. Anakin is more used to climbing over machinery, regardless.

He huffs, wedging his fingers into handholds and carefully testing the little divots and ledges where he places his toes, praying to Ar-Amu and the Force that nothing gives way. The wall isn’t so high, really, and he reaches the ledge above with a giddy grin, pulling himself over the edge to flop onto it with a cheer.

He blinks and sits up, feet dangling off the side.

His crystal isn’t here. He looks up, and there is another wall climb, another ledge to surmount.

“Ah, poodoo,” he grumbles.

~*~

Water drips from stalagmites as Ji-Kest wanders his way deeper into a maze of narrow, faceted ice tunnels, water echoing all around, the way forward and the way out indecipherable. He catches a thousand reflections off icy pillars and cracked surfaces – of himself, of Anakin. He can _hear_ Anakin, calling him, his voice giddy, his voice heartbroken, his voice angry.

_Follow me!_

_Follow me!_

_Where are you?_

Ji-Kest swallows and presses his hands over his ears, even though it doesn’t help, because the voice is just as loud within his head as without.

He chased him once or twice, that phantom of his brother, getting horribly lost, the tunnels darker, stranger, hopelessly confusing. He’d almost chased his shadow right off a cliff, skidding to a stop on a ledge in a cavern that gleamed faintly blue above, with a few breaks in the cavern ceiling spilling snowflakes and brilliant beams of sunlight through snow, and a void that turned impenetrably dark below. There was no crossing the chasm, even with Anakin calling him on the other side.

He knows already, in his heart, that Anakin is different. That Anakin is special. That Anakin is destined to walk a path he can’t follow.

Ji-Kest _hates_ it.

Sniffling, Ji-Kest ignores the reflections, the voices, and the spinning shadows and images behind them, daring him to look deeper at glimpses of the galaxy, at glimpses of the future, and the past, and something so much more beyond it –

Ji-Kest knows what the edge of madness feels like. He knows fate isn’t kind to psychics like him, that the Force has given him just as much of a curse as it has given him a gift. He doesn’t look, shuffling his way out of the maze one stubborn footstep and turn at a time, until the glassy deepness of the walls gives way to pillars of snow and high ceilings, and there, at the exit, where he feels the most miserable and wretched and alone, is his crystal, crooning quietly, burning bright in the snow.

He swallows a hitching breath and picks it up.

Warmth blossoms in his frigid hands, tickling through his fingers and up his arms until it envelopes his whole being like a cocoon, like a comforting embrace, and someone whispering in his ear; _I know you. I’m here_.

~*~

Anakin stares helplessly up at yet another ledge, but no matter how many he climbs, his crystal is always above him, an ever-expanding goal always tauntingly out of reach.

His eyes sting, and he hits the wall angrily and throws himself to his knees, arms crossed.

“It’s not fair!”

He shivers, as his voice echoes all around, and his face flames at how embarrassing it would be if anybody heard that. He’s cold, and his toes are numb, and his fingers hurt, and his arms are sore, and it’s still –

He looks up, catching the gleaming, enticing shine of a crystal still out of reach. He tears his gaze away, miserably thwarted, and glares down.

He blinks.

He is… a long way up.

He’s not scared, though his stomach swoops a bit. Anakin could jump and he knows without a doubt that the Force would catch him after a breathless, exhilarating fall. He knows that with absolute trust. He shifts forward, on his pressing his palms down on the edge of the ledge, and leans over, looking down.

“Woah,” he breathes out, his breath clouding and tickling against his face.

He’s climbed so _far_. He didn’t think he’d climbed that high. He didn’t think, starting, that he _could_ have climbed that high.

He sits back, chewing on his lip, and looks up again. His heart feels painfully squeezed, nervous and yearning as he rubs his arms, shaking from effort as much as cold. His hair sicks to his forehead, gathering frost.

 _Alright_ , he thinks. _I can do this_.

It’s not as easy as he thought it’d be, but he’s come so far already.

If he has farther still to go…

He can do this.

~*~

Ice has closed most of the temple off, save the crystals caverns, but some of the upper walkways and halls are still clear, and Obi-Wan takes the rare opportunity to explore that Shadow-Walking affords him.

That he also coincidentally leaves Quinlan and Siri standing around together waiting for the younglings…. Well, they probably aren’t going to have it out right there, really, not with children due to pop up unexpectedly, but… maybe they’ll talk, a bit, at least.

Frost crackles beneath his feet, glittering faintly even in deep shadow. He looks out over the atrium, waving down at his friends, and then turns back to explore a corridor.

Every step and breath is amplified, casting playfully down the hall as he admires the remnants of the past. He brushes one hand along the wall, noticing, after a time, that the frost is giving way to clear ice, and the suggestions of ageless murals underneath. He pauses at one particularly clear section and brushes more frost away, but though he can get the sense of some color, of curves and lines, the picture eludes him through the frozen barrier.

Obi-Wan sighs.

“It was beautiful once, and someday will be again.”

Obi-Wan turns sharply, to see a jedi standing there, in a gilded robe with a simple yet elegant circlet adorning his high cerean brow, hair flowing in a long rope down his back. He is very faint against the world – his breath does not cloud; his footsteps, when he moves - smiling knowingly with a bit of mischief in his wizened eyes – make no sound. He is and he is not here.

Obi-Wan sucks in a breath and chokes on cold air, coughing. “M-master,” he manages out.

“Breathe, young one, goodness.”

Obi-Wan feels his face flame, coughing into the sleeve of his parka until his shock settles. He breathes more evenly, and… well, and he stares. “You- you’re – erm, hello.”

“Greetings,” the jedi ghost replies, looking quite amused. Obi-Wan composes himself, as best he can. “Not exactly polite to point out one is dead upon meeting, is it?”

Obi-Wan flushes again, sheepish, tucking his hands together in his sleeves. “It isn’t, I apologize, I was...startled.”

“Hm. I suppose you were,” the cerean looks him over. “I must say, it’s been many centuries since I’ve spoken to a living soul.”

“I – yes – I don’t suppose you know…. how?” Obi-Wan inquires gracelessly, a bit off-kilter by the whole encounter, and so eager for answers.

“How?” the master lifts a surprised brow. “Child, are you not a student of the Whills?”

Obi-Wan blinks, bewildered and curious. “Master, what is-“

“Obi-Wan!” Quinlan’s holler rings through the temple, jarring in its abruptness and irreverence.

“It seems your young ones are waiting on you,” the master says, smiling fondly and looking up and aside, sensing present events through the Force, perhaps. “It is good to see another generation at their beginning,” he sighs, and seems to become more insubstantial as he does.

The young jedi lurches. “Wait a moment, can you –“

Obi-Wan doesn’t blink, or doesn’t think he does, but the master is simply gone, slipping from Obi-Wan’s perception as if he were never there.

 _Student of the Wills_ , Obi-Wan thinks. _Wills? Wilse? Whills? What?_

“Obi-Wan Kenobi!” Siri’s voice rings with much more warning than Quinlan’s, and Obi-Wan starts, making his way back with a lingering glance at the empty corridor.

He makes it back to the balcony and leans over, seeing Quinlan and Siri waiting with three terribly proud younglings, another one dashing out from the refreezing waterfall with a hoop of delight as he watches.

He looks back again, sighs, and makes his way down, stepping into the shadow of a column and out of the shadow of a statue, siding up to Quinlan, who looks him over and leans into his shoulder, nudging him.

Obi-Wan glances over, realizes he’s scowling, and offers an easygoing smile instead, shaking his head. Quinlan lifts a hand, threatening to poke him in the face again, and Obi-Wan swats it away.

“What’d you find up there?” his friend inquires, sniffling a bit for the cold, for all that he’s pretending to be supremely unbothered.

“Ghosts,” Obi-Wan replies casually.

Quinlan snorts, rolling his eyes, and Obi-Wan grins slyly for it, keeping the joke to himself for now.

“What do we do if one of them doesn’t come back?” Quinlan mutters, watching the passage slowly freeze over, getting ever smaller and smaller, with only half the younglings back, shivering and chattering excitedly. “Does that happen often?”

“Then we _go find them_ , Quinlan, what do you think we’d do?”

Quinlan shrugs. “I’ve heard stories about some of these old temples, you know. Some of the old rites of passage could be _deadly_.”

Obi-Wan grimaces, because yes, he’s read some of those accounts. “Supposedly you only died if you conducted yourself in bad faith-“

Siri stomps over and glowers at them both. “Can we _not_ talk about _murder temples_ right now?” she hisses. “What is wrong with you?”

“So much,” Quinlan mutters, earning a snort from Obi-Wan and a sharp pinch from Siri, who whips around to face some admittedly round eyed, pale faced younglings watching the freezing door with trepidation. “Absolutely nothing is going to happen to you or friends so long as we’re here,” she says fiercely, shooting Obi-Wan a particularly exasperated look, as if she expected better from him.

The younglings huddle a little closer to her.

Jax makes his way out quite calmly and stays by the entrance, waiting for Anakin. Anakin bolts out so energetically he doesn’t quite recall that the floor is ice and can’t stop in time when she skids up to Obi-Wan, sending them both crashing to the ground.

“Anakin!”

“I got my lightsaber crystal!”

“You got more than that, kiddo,” Quinlan wheezes, laughing, while Obi-Wan rubs the back of his poor bruised skull.

“Well done,” Obi-Wan says, helping Anakin up and off him and then standing up himself.

Anakin gives him a sheepish grin, but thrusts his hand out to show Obi-Wan his prize anyhow, too excited to be really sorry about knocking him over. “See!”

Obi-Wan softens and ruffles Anakin’s hair. “I see. Was it difficult?”

Anakin pauses. “It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.”

“Did you learn something?” Obi-Wan inquires.

Anakin scuffs a toe, then shrugs. Obi-Wan sighs fondly. “Think on it,” he suggests. “Ilum often shows us something of ourselves that may be difficult to see, be it good or bad.”

“Okay, I will, I promise.” Anakin bounces on his toes. “Can we build our lightsabers now?”

“Tomorrow,” Obi-Wan says, earning not just Anakin’s shocked indignation, but that of several of his agemates.

“B-but!”

“Tomorrow,” Obi-Wan repeats more firmly. “It’ll be dinner time by the time we’re back at the ship, and it’s already been an exciting day. You all could do to mediate with your crystals this evening and get a feel for what shape your lightsaber might take.”

“But I already have designs!!!”

“Oh, and does your crystal agree with them?”

“….” That seems to stump them into silence, and Obi-Wan lets them be, even if several of them grumble beneath their breath, crystals clutched close.

Jax comes up much more sedately to show off his crystal, shyer than Anakin about it, but his pride and awe just as clear when he sets his eyes on it, cradled carefully in his hands.

Obi-Wan crouches down, feeling the clear resonance between the boy and the crystal already. He thinks Jax would suit very well an adegan crystal later in his training, even more so than Anakin, for all his blazing power, might. For now, though, Obi-Wan thinks they’ll do just fine.

“Did you have a hard time?” he asks quietly, hoping Ilum didn’t overwhelm the boy.

Jax looks at him solemnly, glances at Anakin - who is distracted by Etain rushing out and dragging him into the nearest patch of sunlight, whimpering about how she’d had to snatch her crystal from a cold, blindingly dark pit and how terrifying it was – and then turns back to Obi-Wan, though his gaze lowers to his feet, not meeting the knights.

Jax nods.

Obi-Wan reaches around the boy’s shoulder and tugs him closer, tipping their chilly brows together. There are several things it comes to mind to say, but he lets the words go. With Jax, words were often more troublesome than necessary.

“Uh, Obi-Wan?” Quinlan catches his attention. “The fall is all closed over, and we’re missing two.”

“So we go _look_ for them, Vos,” Siri snaps sharply.

Quinlan leans back a little and clears his throat. “Yeah, can’t think of a place I’d rather not go roving around seeking something than the crystal catacombs of Ilum, Padawan Tachi,” he flares his fingers for emphasis, and then shoves them deep into the pockets of his parka, wary of both his psychometry and any personal revelations Ilum thought he might need.

Siri reddens a little, her face already having been rosy from the cold.

“I’ll go,” Obi-Wan volunteers, but Siri shakes her head.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been unsettled and preoccupied since we arrived, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I’d rather not take my chances on _your_ luck right now,” Siri says tersely. “ _I’ll_ go.”

Obi-Wan opens and closes his mouth, feeling as if he’s been accused of something but not sure how to defend himself. “A… alright,” he assents.


	20. Chapter 20

Siri glares at another barrier of flawless black ice, her reflection glaring back at her.

“Oh a bit on the fripping nose, don’t you think?” she growls to the ice caves around her, and shatters the ice with her lightsaber.

She is well aware that she is getting in her own way, thanks.

She can sense the younglings ahead, and she is getting past the point of frustration to outright fury, that they are stuck somewhere in these stupid, cold, dark caves, and Ilum is too intent on teaching her a lesson to let her go help them.

She rounds another turn into a new tunnel, and finds yet another thin barricade of ice, yet another reflection.

“Seriously! I get it! It’s me! I’m standing in my own way!” Siri shouts, kicking the wall and earning a spiderweb of cracks in the thin barrier of ice for her effort. “I know! I know. I’m not an idiot,” she sighs out, tired of this, tired of the frustration, and the confusion, and the big mess of feelings tying her into knots. She needs to talk to Quinlan, she needs to work this out, and she’s never going to do it unless she actually _goes and does it_.

She glowers at herself in the ice. “You’re too stubborn for your own good, you know,” she mutters accusingly, huffing and brushing her hair back from her eyes.

She shatters the reflection with her lightsaber and presses on.

She finds her two younglings standing knee deep in a frozen pond, stuck fast and shivering. They cry in relief when they see her. “Padawan Tachi! Padawan Tachi!”

Siri sighs, eyeing the problem, and then her lightsaber. There’s really only one solution.

She breaks her way out of the frozen waterfall with one youngling slung over her shoulder and the other under her arm, their feet _literally_ encased in blocks of ice, and receives, for her efforts, the celebratory cheering of their anxiously waiting age-mates.

~*~

Obi-Wan breaks his lightsaber down to demonstrate the components to the initiates, emphasizing the construction of each was unique – and impossible without the Force – but that the basic design was fundamentally the same. The younglings exclaim a bit over how he has three lightsaber crystals, and ask if they get more crystals as they get older, to which he replies it depends on the jedi, and that’s its not typically necessary. Many jedi found that a single crystal, well cared for, could serve them well for their entire life.

Choosing their components takes time – and a few arguments – and Obi-Wan lets his lightsaber components continue to float in the air, feeling the resistance between the pieces to doing so. His lightsaber _wants_ to be whole. Obi-Wan watches the orbit of his three crystals, letting Siri and Quinlan handle some of the more technical explanations and emotional mediation. His two adegans strain in opposing directions, rotating around the kyber heart between them, just as powerful for their contrast as for their harmony.

He rubs his wrist absently.

It’s easy enough to recall his own crystal gathering, whenever they make the trip to Ilum. He remembers the sharp shock he’d felt when he’d finally grabbed his crystal only for it to split seamlessly in two. He’d almost started bawling, fearing that was an inauspicious sign of his suitability as a jedi, his near reassignment still painfully raw at the time.

He wonders, now, if that hadn’t been indicative of his …unusual circumstances. And by unusual circumstances, he means Ben.

Then again, he hopes that hadn’t been a portent of fate, given what had happened to one of those two pieces.

He lifts his hand absently, and gently taps the yellow adegan, the one that had always seemed to have just a little more presence and thus seemed a little less something wholly _his_.

A spark glances off his fingertip and jolts through his whole body –

_A yellow sky, broad steps glittering with salt descending into the water of a shimmering green sea, the shadow of something – a monument, or a tower, or-_

_“Do you think we’ve been forgotten?”_

_There is a man sitting on the steps – no, not quite a man. A boy with a haggard face, bald as an egg and his skin the color of coal, a staff clutched in his fingers and a crystal –_ this crystal _– strung on a cord around his neck, hanging against a bony chest._

_The breeze whispers over gentle waves, lapping against the heavy stone steps._

Obi-Wan has no idea who he’s talking to. There’s no one else around. Obi-Wan has the sense that there’s no one else on the entire planet.

His hand flinches back from the jolt, and the vision – the memory – is gone.

He blinks, startled, and takes a measured breath. Then, without fuss, he snaps his lightsaber back together and clips it to his belt.

He takes another breath, looks around, and lurches. “Don’t put that in that way!” he barks at Xiaan, who jumps, startled, and drops the parts she was apparently trying to build a bomb out of. “The power cell will overload if you connect this backwards, see? It would explode, and you’d be hurt.”

“I heard your first lightsaber blew up. Is that why?”

Quinlan and Siri both look up sharply at the innocent question, wincing. Obi-Wan just smiles blandly. Someone always asks right about at this point, so he’s long used to it. “Yes, my first lightsaber blew up. No, that’s not why.”

“But I heard it was because the power cell overloaded.”

“It was flawed,” Obi-Wan says simply, resisting the old habit to rub at his wrist. It hardly aches anymore, after Essja put the bones back together for the second time. “Which is all the more reason to be especially careful in constructing and maintaining your lightsaber.”

“Did you really almost die?”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Yes, I really almost died, which was very unpleasant.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Obi-Wan puffs a laugh at that. “As am I, now, how about we try this?” he demonstrates, helping Xiaan put the pieces in the proper order.

“Oh,” she remarks. “Thank you, Knight Kenobi.”

“You’re welcome.”

~*~

Because he and his friends have very flimsy concepts of boundaries, Siri barges into his room after supper, finding Obi-Wan lying back on his bunk with his hands covering his eyes.

“Look, I know Quinlan and I have our own issues going on that really need to be addressed, but are you okay?” Siri blurts out, slightly accusatory but also concerned. “Ever since your knighting you’ve been….” she trails off, and Obi-Wan moves his hands and turns his head to look at her.

She’s just giving him a scrunched up look, so he sighs and sits up, and Siri lopes over to sit next to him, pulling her feet up and giving him a probing look, hair shading her eyes. Obi-Wan waits, bemused.

She glances away and blows out a breath. “As someone who is at present probably the poster-child for avoiding my own problems, it seems like there’s a lot on your mind you’re trying not to think too hard about, you know?”

Obi-Wan frowns a little, because that makes him sound irresponsible, really, and that’s not…

Siri grabs his hand, pulling it into her lap and holding it in a grip more pressing than comforting. “You’ve been carrying yourself about like there’s nothing wrong, but you’ve been withdrawn and pensive and I know you’d probably rather we _not_ notice but…” she shrugs. “It’s not like we aren’t used to watching you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, you know. It’s just usually you’re not trying to hide it.”

Obi-Wan swallows, clears his throat, and swallows again. “That is – I’m not – I’m _fine_.”

Siri gives him an eerily accurate version of Master Gallia’s most blatantly unimpressed look. Obi-Wan huffs and leans into her side, letting his head rest on her shoulder so he doesn’t have to look her in the eye.

“I’ve got…” his voice gets drowned out by his thoughts a moment, considering what’s on his mind – Ben Naasade having been Obi-Wan Kenobi, how much Obi-Wan misses Satine, the Cosmic Force, Anakin’s future and the hazards of prophecy, the threat of the Sith, and – “ a _lot_ on my mind that I can’t really talk about, Siri,” Obi-Wan confesses, since she’s already called him out. “I’m handling it.”

“I know you’re _handling_ it, Obi-Wan,” she scoffs. “That’s what you do. Just… your friends want to help you. That’s kind of what your friends are for.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. “I know. I know.”

Siri sighs irritably, squeezing his hand tighter. “We all need therapy,” she mutters.

Obi-Wan puffs out a laugh.

“Yeah,” he agrees easily enough, brushing his thumb along the side of her hand. Siri leans her cheek against his hair.

They are both quiet a minute, receding into their own thoughts while leaning on the comfort of each other’s presence.

“Do you wanna talk?” Obi-Wan asks softly, after a bit. “About Quinlan?”

“No,” Siri says. “The person I need to talk about Quinlan with is _Quinlan_.”

“Hm. Alright,” Obi-Wan hums.

“Do you wanna talk?” Siri asks. “About… anything?”

“No,” Obi-Wan says softly, after a moment to ponder how much there is that he simply can’t say, or can’t explain, or doesn’t dare to.

“Okay,” Siri says simply, and sits there with him awhile.

At least until both of them realize that perhaps they shouldn’t leave Quinlan alone with all twenty-one younglings for _too_ long.

~*~

Quinlan starts when Siri grabs is shoulder abruptly. “We have to put a stop to this.”

Quinlan looks at her, glances at Obi-Wan, skips over the despairing looks on the younglings faces, and then back at Siri.

“Very good!” Obi-Wan claps his hands. “But how about we go through it just one more time?”

All twenty-one initiates groan, many of them shooting pitiful, pleading looks at Quinlan and Siri to put a stop to this.

“I forgot,” Siri says flatly, fidgeting under so many hopeful looks. “I forgot what training with Master Naasade was like. I didn’t think-“

“That Obi-Wan would be exactly the same?” Quinlan smirks. “ _Siri_.”

Every day for four days now, Knight Kenobi has had them pushing through a variety of basic katas, testing different grips and styles, working with their new sabers from breakfast almost all the way through to supper, only breaking for lunch and a post-lunch meditation.

They’re exhausted by the time they’ve finished dinner, shuffling through an evening shower before collapsing into bed and starting all over the next morning, eager determination giving way to dismay in spite of how much they were learning and all the advice they were getting on developing their future combat style.

It had quickly diverted them, at least, from the surprise of the lightsaber colors.

Obi-Wan had had a very hushed, quick discussion with Quinlan and Siri once the initiates started getting their sabers put together, telling them not to remark on the colors too much.

Traditionally, an initiates first lightsaber was generally either a shade of green or a shade of blue. There were outliers – Siri with her purple blade, for one, or Sian with her pink, but on average, initiates just graduating from the creche came out with a blue or green crystal, a reflection of their character, inclinations, and experiences.

The crechemasters had noticed a distinct and startling trend these past few years, finding their clans coming home with less blues and greens and more shades of teals and purples, yellows and greys, indicative of how deeply the experiences of their young ones had changed, and how the tragedies and changes had affected them.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it had been an unexpected change, and it had brought with it its own anxieties. While the color alone did not predict or solely determine the character or philosophy of the jedi who wielded it, there were… trends. Shades of yellow generally indicated more adaptable and prudent spirits; purples those more volatile, often found in the hands of either empaths or those who simply felt their emotions more deeply than most; teals common among healers and mediators; greys among those particularly principled, who generally had notable conviction, but also could tend towards a rigidness in mindset.

So when Ferus Olin had lit his first and revealed a bright silver blade, and Kai Justiss shortly thereafter a sunny yellow, well, they’d had a _little_ warning to get over the surprise.

And Obi-Wan hadn’t stumbled a bit.

Quinlan will give his friend credit though – there were definitely more ‘accidents’ on Quinlan’s own Ilum trip than he’s seen here so far. Fires, property damage, mild burns, illicit sparring – all the unfortunate hazards of excited children bearing shiny new laser swords. With Obi-Wan in charge? There had been _none_ of that.

So Quinlan had to give Nasaade’s method it’s due credit.

“Quinlan,” Siri hisses. “ _Quinlan_.”

He eyes her, grinning at her misery, because apparently Siri Tachi can’t handle the big sad eyes and pitifully curled tails, droopy ears and wavering lips. Quinlan honestly questions whose discipline is really being tested here.

“Interrupt Obi-Wan while he’s teaching. Go ahead, Padawan Tachi.”

One of the initiates, sensing weakness, whimpers, moving between one form and the next, arms shaking.

“Obi-Wan!” Siri calls. “Give them a break.”

Obi-Wan pauses, the initiates all falling out of form to look between the two of them hopefully. Knight Kenobi smiles magnanimously at Siri, who balks and then squares both her shoulders and her jaw, not backing down.

He looks over his class. “Initiates, are we tired?”

“Yes!” Anakin answers immediately, waving his mint green saber in emphasis.

“Ah,” Obi-Wan remarks, looking over everyone else and receiving energetic nods of affirmation. “Well then, how about Knight Vos helps everyone do some stretches so we’re not too sore, and then Padawan Tachi can lead meditation. No more katas today.”

The initiates all heave sighs of relief, some of them flopping down right then and there.

It is very, very hard for them to hold a grudge against the Mandalorian knight when he smiles at them so fondly, Quinlan thinks. He knows the feeling.

“Knight Kenobi, did you _really_ train like this _every day_ as a junior padawan?” Etain, her ponytail a mess of streaked auburn-blonde, inquires dubiously.

“Every nine days out of ten, though I had schoolwork too, and missions,” he replies. “So it wasn’t _all_ saberplay.”

The girl looks blankly at him, and then turns to Anakin Skywalker. “Good luck.”

Anakin makes a face at her.


	21. Chapter 21

They meet in the galley in the middle of the night.

Not, like, _intentionally_.

“Quinlan!” Siri hisses, almost drawing her saber on him when a presence suddenly appeared at her back while he was climbing the counter to reach a high cupboard, certain their hand to be something illicit here somewhere. Alcohol, maybe. Chocolate, hopefully.

“Siri!” Quinlan startles back and hits the opposite counter with his hip, spooking like a startled loth-cat, dipping through a shadow, and reappearing across the room.

Siri really, really hates how easily he and Obi-Wan do that.

“What are you _doing_?” she snaps – quietly. Part of encouraging initiates not to sneak out for snacks in the middle of the night – particularly initiates who were used to getting snacks in the middle of the night – meant not getting caught doing exactly that themselves.

“What am I – you’re doing it too!” Quinlan retorts, crossing his arms.

“Well-“

Well, nothing, actually, because he was right. Siri snaps her mouth shut, teeth clicking together, and concedes grudgingly. “Fine, help me look.”

They search the galley, coming up with rum infused tea, rodian sour candies, and a half-used bottle of sedative laced fruit syrup.

“Do you think this was for the adult or the younglings?” Siri inquires dubiously, sharing a raised brow look with Quinlan.

Quinlan considers it, and then tugs off his glove.

“Bet?” he offers, smirking.

Siri narrows her eyes, thinking it over. “I’m betting younglings.”

Quinlan picks up the sleep syrup.

“Younglings it is,” he informs her. Siri gapes.

“Force!” She swears. “Someone actually _drugged_ -!”

“Like you wouldn’t,” Quinlan scoffs, tossing the bottle from hand to hand. “Relax. Looks like it was prescribed for those with a little bit of hyperspace sleep syndrome.”

Siri crosses her arms. “If that’s the case, how come we weren’t told about it?”

Quinlan gives her a look. “Because with the way Obi-Wan runs things, nobody needs it?”

That…. he had a point there.

Siri puts the syrup and the candies back while Quinlan makes up some tea for them, and borrows a few packets of butter cookies from the regular rations. Siri runs her fingers through her hair nervously, sitting on the counter, watching him move back and force with that languid deftness he had, half lazy and half utterly precise.

He glances at her and catches her gaze, and she guesses they’re both aware that they may as well talk about it now, if they’re ever going to.

“Wish I had _afke_ ,” he mutters.

“Um, I don’t,” Siri responds, shuddering a little. He offers a little twist of a smile and shrugs lightly at that. Siri had brewed and drank the _afke_ that Obi-Wan had been given to give to her, but she _had not_ enjoyed it.

“Fair,” he says.

Quinlan hands her a cup and a packet of butter cookies and hops up on the bar counter across from her. Siri crinkled the foil between her fingers, worrying at it before opening it. She sets it aside without eating one, though, and picks up the cup instead, taking a sip.

Aside from being slightly too hot, the flavor is warming if almost a little burnt tasting, and her second sip is more of a gulp that she can feel slightly scalding all the way down to her stomach.

She crams a butter cookie – slightly stale, for all the packaging and preserving – in her mouth and has to sip again to manage to swallow.

Quinlan snickers at her, snorting into his cup. “Siri,” he says simply, and all of a sudden her eyes are burning too.

“I’m sorry,” she wallows out, mouth half full, hands gripping the cup too tightly.

“Don’t choke,” Quinlan says, setting his cup aside and gripping the edge of the counter, leaning in a little to look her over before glancing aside. It’s easier for the both of them, she thinks, not having to stare each other in the face. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said-“

“You were under cover-“

“I still shouldn’t have said it!” Quinlan retorts sharply. “Not like that, not – not because I knew it would hurt you the worst.”

Siri clenches her jaw and glares at the wall. “You knew I-“

“Had feelings for me? Hells, Siri, of course I knew.” Quinlan spits out sharply.

Siri nods, tight and angry, refusing to let her burning eyes become tears. She cried over that plenty already and was made a fool for it.

“Having a reason doesn’t meant it wasn’t a shitty thing to do, Siri, and I’m sorry,” Quinlan says.

“You already apologized,” Siri mutters. “Probably more seriously than I deserved. It was all-“ she laughs bitterly. “ It was all a stupid farce anyway. I should have just forgiven you, once I knew. I just…”

It had hurt, still, not just her spurned feelings, but her bewilderment, her loss, her anger over the entire situation. It had hurt for two years, and finding out that it was all some plot had just made that hurt more bitter, because there was – there was no one really at fault, and no one to blame, and it didn’t make those feelings go away. It just made her feel stupid and foolish and Siri hated feeling stupid and foolish and so she took it out on Quinlan because-

Well, because.

“I really believed in you, Quinlan, and I really believed that you just… turned your back on everything. On the jedi, on your friends, on yourself. And I had to live with that. And I just – couldn’t figure out _how_ to live with it. Do you get that? How unfair it all was? To all of us?”

“I get it,” Quinlan says softly. “I had to live with too.”

“But you knew,” Siri blurts out explosively. “You knew you hadn’t given up, that you were still working for the Jedi, that you were going to be okay. And I didn’t. I didn’t have that, Quinlan. And it’s not fair to hold it against you, and I _know_ that. I just…”

She takes a gulp of tea, to stop her rambling and steady her emotions. She shakes her head. “It’s not so easy to let those feelings go. I’m trying.”

Quinlan nods, looking away while she swiftly scrubs at her eyes. “Yeah,” he says simply.

Siri huffs an exasperated echo. “Yeah,” she repeats, everything summed up.

“Will you meditate with me?” Quinlan asks, after they both spend a minute stewing in silence and very obviously not looking at each other.

“What?” Siri asks dumbly.

“Meditate with me,” his request becomes less a question and more an urging offer. Siri stares blankly at him, because there was meditating together and then there was meditating _together_ and one was very much a lot more spiritually intimate than the other.

“I’m not sure feeling what you feel and vice versa is going to make this less messy, Que,” Siri says, throat dry.

“It’s a mess we’re in together,” he shrugs, his tone and gesture at odds with the hesitant nervousness she can sense from him. “We can’t argue our way out of our feelings on this one, Siri. Don’t you think it’s worth a shot? Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

Siri takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I thought I’d have a shouting match with you and then everything would get better.”

Quinlan snorts, and Siri laughs at her own folly too.

“Yeah,” she sighs, rubbing at her brow. “Yeah,” she nods. “I’ll meditate with you.”

~*~

“Master YODA!!!!”

Shrieks of delight echo around the hanger, and Shmi braces herself from flinching at the noise as the younglings dash down the ramp, new lightsabers swinging next to the bells hanging on their belts.

Following at a more sedate pace, Obi-Wan, Quinlan and Siri come down the ramp, Obi-Wan with Anakin slung over one shoulder and Ji-Kest holding his free hand. Anakin flops himself to the ground and both he and Ji-Kest bolt towards her, both slinging themselves into her and clinging. “Mom!”

She ruffles Anakin’s hair and cups Ji-Kest’s cheek. “Were you good?”

“We were with Obi-Wan!” Anakin replies, as if that answered the question. Shmi lifts a brow at him, but he just grins brightly.

“Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan greets the elder with some surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you here. All’s well?”

“Well, all is. Master of the Creche, I am to be,” Yoda replies, and the young man breaks out into a grin as the younglings cheer even louder.

It was not a decision on the elder’s part that surprised Shmi, though she could sense the mischief in every wrinkle on his green face when he showed up unexpectedly at her transport the morning she was due to depart back to Alderaan to settle her duties and collect any dear possessions before returning to active service.

And also to see to her children, before they were separated for a time.

“But that means…”

“Elected Master Windu to the Head of the Order, I have. Elected Master Fay, Grandmaster, also.”

Shmi gives the diminutive green creature a look. He cackles in smug delight, to Obi-Wan’s obvious confusion.

“He published his resignation and submitted them for promotion an hour _after_ we departed Coruscant,” Shmi explains dryly.

Obi-Wan laughs.

“The Council did not find it funny,” Shmi says admonishingly.

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “Master Windu has been all but holding that position within the Order for years now and Fay loves surprises. I’d say it’s well deserved.”

“I would admire your courage if you would repeat that before them,” Shmi says, lifting a brow.

Obi-Wan shakes his head. He has _some_ sense of self-preservation. It’s perfectly fine to tease when he’s not in range for retribution, after all.

“All in order, it is,” Yoda lifts his ears. “See it, they will, when cease panicking, they do. _Old_ , I am. Prepared for my departure, for years, have I been.”

He would have had to be, Shmi acknowledges. He was old and in that was always the risk of his passing. Still…. _he_ had not been the one fielding the comms the entire trip to Alderaan.

“We get to _keep_ Master Yoda?” Anakin chimes in, whipping his gaze between the three of them for confirmation.

“You do,” Shmi confirms.

“Yes!” Anakin jumps in delight. “Master Yoda, can you teach me –“

~*~

After delivering an atypically long report and attempting to provide cohesive and coherent evaluations for every initiate given the mix of commentary provided by each of them, Quinlan gets dragged off by Obi-Wan to meet Omi Skywalker.

She has Tholme’s muted green eyes and thick dark hair, and all the rosy presence of a happy young Force-Sensitive child.

She doesn’t seem to find Quinlan all that interesting.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grouses good-humoredly, as she wriggles around and pushes her hands out at Obi-Wan, wanting _his_ attention. “Everyone loves Obi-Wan best.”

Obi-Wan takes the girl and tosses her high in the air, making her shriek in delight and Quinlan lurch to his feet even though Mimi is already safely back in Obi-Wan’s hands by the time the alarm registers in Quinlan’s brain.

“ ‘gen! Do again!”

“How about I throw you to Quinlan?” Obi-Wan proposes.

“How about you don’t!” Quinlan retorts quickly, bracing himself for a surprise catch if need be. Obi-Wan laughs at him and shakes his head.

“You’ve tossed younglings about before, Que,” Obi-Wan teases him for his skittishness.

“Not _babies_.”

And certainly not _Shmi Skywalker’s_ baby.

“I not baby!” the toddler whips her head around, giving him an impressive glare, her nose scrunched up adorably.

“No?” Obi-Wan queries at the girl.

“No!” She insists grumpily.

“Oh, my mistake then.”

She bonks his face with her hand, smooshing his nose, and Quinlan snorts.

They settle Omi back with her creche clan and Obi-Wan gives Quinlan a series of subtly pointed looks, walking in step with him as if Quinlan had half an idea of where he was going now.

“Stop,” Quinlan grumbles.

“I haven’t said anything,” Obi-Wan replies with tacit innocence. Quinlan gives him a narrow look.

“Your face said it for you,” Quinlan remarks.

Obi-Wan smirks at that, shrugging lightly. He takes a half-step ahead of Quinlan and turns nonchalantly. “Well then I should just say it directly; You have business to attend to here on Alderaan and you know it, and if you drag about about it, I will leave you here so that you have as much time as you could possibly need, up and to forever.”

Quinlan gives him a gaping, affronted look. “Seriously?”

Obi-Wan crosses him arms. “Yes. Aayla Secura has been waiting long enough for you, Quinlan. Either take her as your padawan as the Force intended, or _let her go_.”

“I never made her wait for me, that wasn’t my intention,” Quinlan mutters defensively, thinking somewhat guiltily of the drawings tucked away in his room on Coruscant, and the decorative butterflies he had sent to her.

“It wasn’t _yours_ , but Aayla has her own desires and opinions,” Obi-Wan softens, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. “And she deserves to have them heard out. You owe her that, at least.”

Quinlan shifts his balance, tense and unhappy with the suddenness of the subject. “I’m not-“

“The jedi you think you should have been?” Obi-Wan cuts him off, far too accurate in his assumptions. “So what? You’re a jedi knight, and a good one. That’s enough.”

“But she’s-“

“Tough. She’s tough and bullheaded and far more conscientious than you’ve ever been, so I’m sure you’ve got just as much to learn from her as she’s got to learn from you, which is ideal.”

“Would you stop-“

“No,” Obi-Wan cuts him off cheerily. “I’ve had _years_ to think about how to help you get over yourself on this particular issue, so this is clearly not an argument you’re going to win."

Quinlan glares at his best friend, but Obi-Wan's got a steely glint in his eye and more tenacity than anyone Quinlan's ever met.

"You know, it's not your mission in life to make me deal with all my issues," Quinlan grumbles.

Obi-Wan gives him the strangest little laugh and a push. "Give in, Que. Go find her.”


	22. Chapter 22

“I see you accomplished the mission I assigned you, Knight Kenobi,” Master Gallia remarks approvingly, awaiting him on the platform, Quinlan and Siri squabbling their way across the platform after having briefly greeted the master, Aayla marching behind with a grin that’s been fixed on her face from the moment she boarded the _Lighthawk_.

“Would I dare return otherwise?” Obi-Wan defers dryly, cheek dimpling.

Master Gallia lifts an amused brow at him, gaze glancing down at his armor before levelling on him. “I do believe there is a distinct breed of bounty hunter that would be delighted for the opportunity to get to return you to me should you so unwisely wander off.”

“That- “ Obi-Wan’s voice catches indignantly. “That’s actually a really good idea,” he admits. Hiring Mandalorians to find Jedi who went missing in action could certainly prove beneficial in terms of relations and services. Mandalore could use the income and the Order, well, they needed every jedi they had.

“Isn’t it?” Master Gallia agrees. “Do you think you could draw up a suitable contract proposal to submit?”

“I – do you want to go through the government or directly to the guilds?” Obi-Wan inquires, thinking quickly.

“Which do you believe would be more suitable?” She inquires, forthright.

Obi-Wan thinks on it for a moment, waving Quinlan and Siri off from across the hanger when they finally realize Obi-Wan and Master Gallia aren’t following and Quinlan gives him a mental, questioning prod. Obi-Wan invites Master Gallia to walk with him and they fall in step, getting out of the way of a pair of energetic maintenance droids.

“I would propose addressing such a large contract through the government, but it’s tricky, if we look like we’re favoring the Mandalorian sector on a basis of reciprocation,” Obi-Wan points out reasonably. “If we are going to seek outside assistance in such instances, we should open the opportunity up to several cooperatives and commit to it in terms of areas of responsibility…. Perhaps even limit such endeavors to the Outer Rim territories, where our resources are notably more scarce,” he mulls it over, rubbing at his jaw. “Mandalore _can’t_ be the only recipient of such deals, and the last thing we need to do is add more tension into our relations with the Republic.”

“Well reasoned,” Master Gallia nods approvingly. “I thought much the same.”

Obi-Wan cuts a glance at her, snorting a little as he recognizes he was being tested, either on his potential bias or his grasp of political ramifications.

“I thank you for the compliment,” Obi-Wan replies graciously. “Is this something you need drawn up urgently? Do we have missing jedi in that region?”

“No cases of concern, though there are certain teams who need a remedial lecture on the importance of regular communication,” she grumbles, sighing and rubbing at her temples. “Although we’re having concerns with the outpost on Rattattak. We fear there may be trouble there in the near future given the contested nature of the territory and increasing conflicts around our transports.”

Given that Masters Naasade, Narec, and Tholme (and company) had done a rather clumsy and abrupt liberation of the planet, a Jedi Service Station had been set up to stabilize the situation and help out the locals, given that they’d been oppressed and impoverished for quite some time, and had difficulties dealing with more technologically advanced and armed outsiders. While there wasn’t a dire need to have a permanent Jedi Watchmen on location, that could easily change if the Siniteen or other raiders were persistent in their determination to reclaim their losses.

“If you want a threat assessment done, I’d be happy to volunteer to accompany Padawan Ventress to do so,” Obi-Wan offers, thinking Asajj might like to go back to see how the world was fairing in her absence. For a long time, she and her master had been the unofficial Jedi Watchmen on Rattattak. That wasn’t always an easy responsibility to step back from.

Master Gallia gives him a searching look, pausing before she replies as if finding something in him she hadn’t been looking for. “I may take you up on that, though not every problem we encounter is one you must solve yourself, Knight Kenobi. A solicitation for advice is not an assumption of responsibility,” she says in curt, kind tones. “I think your ability to prioritize and delegate could use a little polishing, but then, you very much are Master Naasade’s former padawan.”

Obi-Wan thinks that through three times and still isn’t sure if he’s been complimented or insulted.

By the amused twinkle in her violet gaze, she’s well aware of that fact.

“Your capability nor your competence is in question,” she finally reassures him. “I’m merely advising that you bear in mind to balance your responsibilities with your well-being; something you and Ben Naasade have a concerning tendency to frequently forget or else deliberately ignore.”

“Ah… yes, Master Gallia. I’ll heed your advice.”

“As you should,” she remarks with teasing. “Now, did you happen to see Master Yoda?”

“Ah-“

~*~

“Can I just yield?” a hapless knight asks, his fellows chuckling a little from the edges of the training salle, where, one by one, they have been sounding and thoroughly beaten by one Jedi Master Ben Naasade in hand to hand combat. “I haven’t a hope of winning.”

Ben laughs, grinning, and beckons the knight into the ring. “The point is not to win,” the Mandalorian jedi informs them, brushing his hair back from his eyes, a healthy flush of sweat on his face and dampening his thin shirt. A dozen sparring rounds already, and he showed no signs of slowing down.

His opponents had learned also, very quickly, that his artificial leg was _not_ a hinderance in combat.

For fairness sake, he wasn’t even wearing any of his armor.

“The point is to evaluate your capabilities so you know where you need to improve if you wish to win. You _did_ sign up for this,” he points out wryly.

“Master Naasade, who taught _you_ to fight like that?” his previous opponent inquires, ruefully rubbing at the would-be bruise on their poor abused side.

Shaak Ti, observing, is curious as to that answer. His method was not that of a typical Mandalorian fashion, nor any fashion she recognizes. There was almost a recklessness to the full-body commitment of his actions, not only as if he were prone to wearing complete armor (which the jedi master did not) but as if he were truly either invulnerable or else… sacrificial.

“Some of the best damn soldiers I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing, and some very good friends,” Ben replies, an answer that was no answer at all. “Now, come up front,” he beckons again.

“If you could spare your students, Master Naasade,” Shaak Ti interrupts, “I would like to borrow some of your time.”

The remainder of his students holds their breath. Ben eyes them assessingly and then nods. They expel it, relieved.

“I want written self-evaluations by our next lesson, and any notable remarks you have on what you observed today that do _not_ have to do with my person,” Ben remarks to his students, tone dry. “These can be as concise or comprehensive as you desire, so long as they demonstrate a reasonable measure of introspection. You are welcome to spar each other for the remainder of the session, and I do encourage those of you who have not had the opportunity to face me to do so while you have the assistance of your peers.”

A brief chorus of acknowledgement sounds in the salle, and Ben collects a towel, his boots and belt, and wipes his face and neck before joining Shaak Ti, flush from the exercise and looking quite pleased with himself.

“You’re in fine form,” Shaak Ti notes, tipping her montrals as he escorts her from the salle.

“Why thank you,” he says charmingly, his stride brim with energy and his gaze bright with sharp focus. Teaching and combat both suit him well – as does sleeping through the night. Shaak Ti is pleased for him. “What do you need of me?”

“Master Yaddle has requested that you would join a few of us for a cup of tea,” Shaak Ti informs him succinctly.

Her sense of him is both scorching and elusive on the best of days. Even in the moment that it twists, flares, and transforms inscrutably, it’s hard to discern what he truly feels for all that he seemingly does and does not react.

“Ah,” he remarks blandly.

~*~

‘A few of us’ turns out to be Shaak Ti, Master Yaddle herself, an entirely unexpected Knight Ichi-Tan Micoda, and a clawdite jedi with a boyish smile that, Ben suspects, is not actually a clawdite, but a shape-shifter merely imitating another shape-shifter.

A familiar shape-shifter, at that. “Trip, I believe?” Ben presumes, accepting a seat in the small chamber overlooking the canopy of one of the gardens that Yaddle had selected for this meeting.

“If you’d like,” the Shadow replies cheekily, though there is perhaps a touch of apprehension in the way they watch Ben as he sits down.

Yaddle ignores them, turning the crystal node in the center of the table with a touch of the Force, causing a holo-display to engage, shimmering over their serving set of tea.

“The public record of Senator Sheev Papatine of Naboo, this is. Many private records, gathered, we have. Seeking more, my people are. But you,” she turns to Ben directly. “Tell us, you will, what you know, of his actions, of this time.”

Ben glances at their present company, and then meets her gaze again. “Tell you…”

“Every detail, Master Naasade. Every assumption and guess,” she gestures to the displayed information, the layers upon layers of it, thousands of hours of bland reading, no doubt, given the bevy of legislation a public servants name may appear upon. “Notice differences, too, you might. Change, you committed. Changed, has your enemy?”

“Master Yaddle, are we telling them-“ Ben tries to clarify.

“From the future, Master Naasade is,” she states blandly and with force. “Mind it, do not. Here and now, are we. Here and now, is our opponent. Focus, you must,” she meets the eye of every startled and visibly unstartled being present.

Shaak Ti trills a small note full of many, many coalescing thoughts, and nods obediently, though her silver gaze strays to Ben thoughtfully. His returning smile covers a grimace.

“As you will, Master Yaddle,” Ben says simply, letting his attention focus on the flickering archive of information before him.


	23. Chapter 23

In deference to the fact that Shaak Ti, though petite for one of her people, is no less a born hunter, Ben politely does not make an attempt to flee when she pins him with a mercurial look as their rather lengthy discussion breaks apart.

Ben’s throat is a touch strained, from all the talking, but it feels… better than he had thought it would, to confess to so many of his hemmed up thoughts, to the tangled, uncertain suspicions, to the blurry confusion between what he remembered as fact or merely as rumor, and what it might mean in light of what they know in the present.

It was not an easy discussion. Everything he knows from what little they were able to investigate during the clone wars had already been ten years too late, and himself at this time in his own past may as well have been clueless. He and Qui-Gon had rarely been on Coruscant in the last years of his training, taking one harrowing mission after another, or else being assigned to long meditative retreats which were half relief and half censure from the Council for whichever affront Qui-Gon had caused them at the time.

As despairing as he had been as a youth for being anywhere adjacent to the Council’s disapproval, Ben actually remembers those trips quite fondly in hindsight; Qui-Gon huffing and grumbling for however long it took them to reach their destination, and then arriving at serene, far flung places bursting with the Living Force and watching his master’s tension and brusque temper slowly unspool into that buoyant energy. Ben himself recalls one rather charming beach, all grey sands and rocky tidepools. He’d lost a boot in a stretch of mud-silt and gone diving for pearls to bring back for Bant. In so far as he remembers, he doesn’t think she’d ever actually received them. He’d lost his robe somewhere between that planet and home, and the pearls with it.

Regardless – he’d been far from the internal machinations of the Senate, save wherein they directly affected an assigned mission, and far more concerned with his attempt to reach Knighthood. The political tensions of the Republic had, as far as any of them were concerned, always been there in the background of their lives and always would be. It had been nothing drastic at the time.

How complacent they had been.

How foolish.

But how else? Being here (and having the advice of a very good Soul Healer), Ben has to learn to forgive them for what they could not have known. Besides – it’s different now. _He_ is here. _He_ knows, and they are doing what they can.

Shaak Ti’s arm slips into his, the shimmering satin of her wine-red dathomiri vestment whispering against his own concordian silk sleeve, and she escorts him down the corridor with her typical reserved grace.

They walk, and Ben swallows against the scratchiness in his throat and waits for questions she does not ask. She looks at him a few times, regarding him with deep, thoughtful focus, but her lips don’t part for words, for inquiries. She makes up her own mind with meticulous conscientiousness, and Ben waits for the conclusion.

They take several turns about the corridors, no particular destination in mind, skirting the edges of the gardens but not going in, and it is… easy. Shaak Ti’s company has always been steady and calming, even in censure. Her presence is a pillar – not immense, not towering, not heavy, just – certain and constant.

Eventually she slows her pace, and stops, taking his hand in both of hers rather than separating from him completely. She looks into his eyes and nods, humming some soft, barely-there sound.

“That poor boy,” she says, the edges of her lips quirking faintly. “No wonder there are so many rumors. Does he know?”

Ben feels a puff of laughter stopper in his throat, and coughs it out. “Yes, yes I’ve told him. Not what we’ve just discussed, exactly, but… the gist of it.”

Shaak Ti hums again, pressing on his hand with her own. “I’m glad of it, Ben,” Shaak Ti says, her tone direct and unperturbed. “Whatever else, I am glad you are here. I believe my life is richer for it.”

Ben looks at her a bit helplessly, wondering how much she has guessed and knowing it is probably more than he suspects. Of all things, he has changed her life most drastically and mostly without intention.

He looks at her, but there is nothing of wariness in her gaze, nothing of accusation nor doubt – just acceptance and sympathy.

Ben feels a smile stretch across his face, and nods. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Shaak Ti hums again, and takes back his arm, and they continue their rather pleasant walk.

~*~

Obi-Wan turns, drawing his saber-hilt close to his body in a two-handed grip and letting the blade flash out with a sharp turn of his wrist, turning the force of the training droids pike aside. He can feel the mirror of Depa’s movements at his back, their shadows melding together, their footwork in sync. Asajj leaps, casting aside blaster bolts from an ambush above and the moebius current of power and connection between the three of them carries her perfectly over their heads; makes space for her as she touches down, as Obi-Wan’s blade sweeps high and Depa’s sweeps low and their footworks carries them around, completing a circle. The water their using in place of glass pearls reflects the glow of their sabers, casting it across the walls in shimmering bands.

It’s almost performative. Familiarity and dedication has finally begun to shift the careful rote of learned practice into the freeform of natural understanding, making their sessions flow and advance as they expanded their understanding, rather than testing it.

It was….fun.

Shoulder’s brush his, Depa being pushed back against him, and Obi-Wan bends, letting her weight press against his and then carry her over him as she takes the impetus to flip, and Assaj guards the momentary gap.

Depa lands on her feet, facing Obi-Wan, and then spins her blade and ducks, cutting through the droid behind her and lowering her head while Obi-Wan turns the circling current of the Force into a weapon, sending the other two droid on this side crashing into the far wall, taking out one of the ‘snipers’ above.

By the time he’s turns around, Asajj has cleared the other side of the room, and Depa takes care of the last sniper with a flicker-quick return of a blaster bolt.

The currents of energy weaving through and around the three of them still hasn’t broken, and the three of them stand their in the carnage of the training room for a moment, letting it simmer and wheel and draw them to each other.

“Don’t get caught up,” Depa warns staunchly, even as she leans into it to, letting their shared energy thrum through her senses, through her connection to the Force, their individual experiences of the world, the particulars of their unique sensory experiences and strengths in the Force layering over each other in luminous detail.

It could be… addicting, come to find out.

Partiuclarly given that it tended to stave off their exhaustion, which would hit all at once when they extracted themselves from each other.

“I don’t want to be bonded to you two forever,” Asajj grouses, shaking off the excess energy like shedding a garment and leaving Obi-Wan to catch the water still chasing itself through the air. She always does that, and he usually ends up wet. Depa, at least, is polite enough to help him ground the excess energy they’ve built up and patiently wait for it to dissolve back into the ambient energy around them.

Sometimes they left…traces in the Force, wispy echoes of their form where they’d concentrated power, and while it wasn’t harmful, it did tend to give a startling jolt to whoever walked into it unprepared. So they had to clean up after themselves.

Obi-Wan gives Asajj a playfully affronted look for her comment and she rolls her eyes. Depa steps across the salle, frowning at the training droid’s he’d crumpled against the wall.

“What?” Obi-Wan and Asajj both inquire, sensing her brief unease. Depa looks back at them while they give each other a snippy look. Her brow is furrowed, pinching around the piercing in the center of it.

She focuses on Obi-Wan, concern in her gaze. “Your lightsaber is your weapon,” she says. “I think you should rely on the Force as your guide and shield. This…” she looks back at the droids, crushed against the wall, half-cut through by the Force. “This is a dangerous technique. A dangerous style. If this is how you demonstrate it to the Council, they will not approve.”

“They’re just droids,” Asajj scowls.

Depa nods. “They are, but Obi-Wan in particular should not use such a technique, no matter the fact that we know he is capable and conscientious with his control,” she looks at him, and he understands exactly why she emphasizes him in particular. “You are used to concentrated force and a fierce combat style, but if you are to lash out like that, you should blunt your attack to a disruptive push, rather than a fatal blow.”

Obi-Wan nods in understanding and eyes the droids himself. He is his master’s padawan, after all. His style was as lethal as it was protective, and that was a delicate distinction. He sighs, rubbing at his jaw. He may have created Daosaan, but his understanding of just what he had created – and how to control it – expanded every day. He was not yet its _master_.

“I’ll have to practice,” he remarks, considering the effort it might take – and how disruptive to his partners - it might be, to narrow and widen the scope and power of the currents they’d built, blunting and sharpening them mid-combat. Considering if it even _could_ be done, or if he would have to train himself into greater restraint and avoid that sort of focused Force attack altogether.

Depa nods, and Asajj shrugs. She contributed much of the energy and impetus to their tandem form, but she left channeling and controlling it to her partners, preferring to ride the flow of it and draw on its power rather than direct it herself. It suited her better, given her jar kai style and her natural warrior prowess.

“Aside from that,” Depa continues, nudging the leg of a droid out of her way. “When do you plan to present this to the Council? I think we’re ready enough for a debut demonstration.”

“You think?” Obi-Wan lifts his brows, considering the glaring issue with his own practice she’d just pointed out.

“We’re not masters, but we’re capable enough to prove the concept,” Depa says resolutely, a proud little smile quirking her lips.

Obi-Wan looks to Asajj for confirmation of how she feels about it, and she crosses her arms, saber hilts still in her grip, though the blades were extinguished. She worries her lip in unusual shyness, and then glares at him for seeing it, jutting her chin up.

“I’m ready,” she declares, as if daring them to challenge her on it.

Obi-Wan smirks a little, earning a more peevish glare from her winter-pale eyes, and turns back to Depa, nodding. “Do you want to schedule it?” he inquires.

Depa gives him an amused look, dark brows lifting. “Oh no, this is going to have your name front and center and all the way around, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

That.

That is blatant teasing, and he does not appreciate it, the tips of his ears turning red. “Why do you have to say it like that?”

“The Council _adores_ you, Knight Kenobi.” Depa smirks. “I’m sure they’ll be _thrilled_ you’re asking for an audience.”

They would. Not be that, Obi-Wan thinks. As individuals, he is sure most of them like him, to some degree, but as a body, he thinks his name inspires a cautious apprehension.

The feeling is mutual.

There is no fault in this, it is just…. unfortunate.

“Do either of you have upcoming missions?” he asks, sighing at Depa’s cheeky superiority. She’s not his senior by _that_ much, he’ll have her know.

“I’ve got an ascension ceremony in the Hapes Cluster to attend next week but I’m on the teaching rota for Crisis Control Structures this cycle, so other than that I’m practically temple bound,” Depa says. “Asajj?”

The dathomiri girl’s lips twist darkly, and she sulks. “I have not assessed well in my classes, so no, I am not on the mission roster.”

Depa’s conciliatory smile is a little pinched at that rather disheartening mutter.

“To be fair,” Obi-Wan says soothingly, or as soothingly as he thinks Asajj will allow; “ your field experience is not inconsiderable, so it’s not like you’re lacking for not going on missions at present. Your greatest weakness would be diplomatic affairs, and to be perfectly blunt, I don’t think you’re _ever_ going to be a diplomat.”

Asajj wrinkles her nose at him, but she does seem a bit less sour. “Whatever.”

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh and nods, turning back to Depa. “After you get back, then?”

Depa agrees with a gracious nod.


	24. Chapter 24

“Ben,” Obi-Wan mutters, half buried behind a stack of datapads that he is perusing for any hint of relevant data on the subject of ‘The Whills’ or ‘Wills’ or whatever they might have been out of a deep desire not to have to ask what may or may not be suspicious seeming inquiries of the senior archivists.

“Hm?” Ben, sitting much more sedately across the table, half buried in datapads himself and settled in with a spill-proof thermos of tea, inquires idly, a faintly disgruntled wrinkle in his brow. To be fair, Obi-Wan may not be finding what he’s looking for, but at least his plunge into historical references of religious sects provides interesting – if irrelevant – information.

Ben is perusing – Obi-Wan peers at the labels – genealogical records of Naboo and various data minutes from obscure senate committee meetings. Undoubtedly dry and mind-numbing and probably connected to the issue of the Sith, if Obi-Wan had to guess, because his master has no shortage of distaste for politics otherwise.

“I get the feeling that we’re making people nervous,” Obi-Wan says.

Ben lifts his gaze from his datapad, giving the younger man a look. “Beg pardon?”

Obi-Wan quirks a brow, holding the older man’s gaze and pointedly not glancing at the slightly anxious pair of knights hovering in his peripheral and whispering back and forth before moving on with one last nervous look over their shoulders at the table the two red-headed jedi have taken over.

To be fair, the last time Obi-Wan Kenobi holed up in the archives….

It also doesn’t help that rumor has gotten around that he’s requested an audience with the Council.

These two factors may be rather unfortunately _too_ coincidental for comfort.

“I’m reading,” Ben huffs, fussily indignant and protesting the innocence of the action.

Obi-Wan snorts softly. “I _hope_ that’s all you’re doing. Master Windu accosted me the other day to rather brusquely inquire if you were editing records again.”

“I’m not.”

“When were you editing records?” Obi-Wan presses, having been surprised by the accusation and having won a release from the slightly hassled new Head of the Order for clearly being innocent in whatever it was he _thought_ Master Ben was up to.

“I spent quite some doing so in the first year of my arrival, in case…” Ben trails off, clears his throat, and then carries on. “Just in case.”

Obi-Wan gives him a narrow, suspicious look, and Ben smiles affably in turn. The teenager rolls his eyes, turning back to his datapad and sighing as the subject content veers away from any semblance of the knowledge he desires.

He doesn’t even know if ‘The Wills’ or ‘Whills’ were an Order of Jedi or not, and there are more records missing from history during the thousand years of darkness and the eons before than there were preserved or recovered. Even the archival records of Ilum had proven unhelpful, though they had given him the broadest sense of a timeframe to investigate, provided the ghost had been an occupant of Ilum during its inhabited period and that they had encountered whomever or whatever the ‘Whills’ or ‘Wills’ were _prior_ to dying.

Obi-Wan is rather irritated they hadn’t been more helpful, actually.

Obi-Wan runs his hands through his hair, feeling rather thwarted and contemplating once again how he might inquire about reference material on the study of the Cosmic Force and the phenomena of life after death without scandalizing an archivist. Knowledge wasn’t forbidden within the Temple, but that didn’t mean they didn’t make certain things more difficult to find.

And older accounts were particularly precious, rare and fragile as they were. What he’s looking for may not even be in the open levels.

“You two are making people nervous,” Bant announces her presence unabashedly, and strides up to their table, Master Tahl trailing behind with a datacron in her hand and dust smudged on her face.

“We’re just reading!” Obi-Wan protests, realizing a heartbeat after he speaks that he sounds exactly as fussily indignant as Ben had. He cuts a glance at the older man, and the barely repressed smirk hanging about his mouth speaks volumes. Obi-Wan scowls irritably at him, and the smirk gains prominence, Ben’s gaze lifting playfully, guessing his thoughts exactly.

It’s so _irritating_ , sometimes.

“You’re not _reading_ , Obi-Wan,” Bant burbles a laugh, “ you’re hoarding datapads in the middle of the archives and looking for all the world like they’ve offended your existence. Last time you did that you told everyone the Order was dying.”

“I’m not a harbinger of ill tidings,” Obi-Wan grumbles, and Ben chokes on his tea.

“May we inquire just what you’re researching, then?” Master Tahl invites herself to join them, sharing a curtly polite nod of greeting with Master Ben, who always seems just a touch pleased and pained by her arrival, but at the present moment is busy clearing his throat and trying to gracefully recover from his little lapse of decorum.

There is probably, Obi-Wan considers, a great deal behind their relationship that Obi-Wan doesn’t know – and that Master Tahl doesn’t either, if he had to guess. Obi-Wan bites his cheek, and wishes things weren’t so unexpectedly _complicated_ now.

It occurs to Obi-Wan, abruptly, that Master Tahl herself is an archivist, albeit an expeditionary researcher as opposed to a curator.

“Have you ever heard of ‘The Whills’ or ‘Students of the Wills’?” Obi-Wan blurts out his query.

Tahl frowns thoughtfully, and Bant does too, and it’s oddly incongruous, two identical expressions on such drastically different faces. As one, both master and padawan hum and then shake their heads.

“I’m afraid not… though can I inquire as to what they’re relevant to?” Tahl tries, “That may give me a better idea.”

Obi-Wan hesitates, glancing between her and Bant, and Bant lowers herself to sit beside him, with her big silver eyes and her intrinsic reassurance.

“The Cosmic Force,” he admits.

Tahl looks flatly at Obi-Wan, and then at Ben, and then at Obi-Wan, and crosses her arms. Obi-Wan offers her a polite and charmingly innocent smile.

Unfortunately, it’s effect is ruined because Ben offers the exact same one, and Master Tahl has never quite gotten over finding Ben somewhat suspicious.

Bant, however, being the good and gracious friend that she is, gives her master a beseeching look on Obi-Wan’s behalf, and Tahl sighs, rubbing at her brow and smearing the dust-mark on her face, likely acquired by that exact gesture.

“The Force is not something you and dive into and out of, Knight Kenobi, as if it were an ocean with wonderous and terrible depths. If it were a place, leaving it would not part you, for part of that place will always remain within you. Some places, some depths…they are doors that are dangerous to open, and once open can’t be closed. You _know_ this,” she lectures, concern evident in her firm tone.

Obi-Wan blinks, processing for a moment the three interlaced allegories with the familiarity of long practice learning from philosophical teachers, and then simply nods.

“I can’t close the door,” he replies, acknowledging and firm. “So I should at least hope to understand where it leads. Also-“ he hurries to speak, when her striped gold and green gaze flits towards his master, already half-accusing as his meaning makes itself clear “ – it was no ones fault but my own, and half an accident besides.”

Master Tahl looks him over and sighs again, muttering some malediction beneath her breath.

“I can make some inquiries on your behalf with a few of my counterparts,” Tahl says, both a sigh and an offer. “Much of the recovered archives from Ossus are still being restored, sorted, and catalogued. Most of it hasn’t been touched since it entered the archival vaults, not with the tumult of the last few years,” she sounds a little bitter at that, and rubs her brow again. “I don’t know if they’ll have anything about your ‘Whills’, but as to the study of the Cosmic Force I think you’ll have more luck.”

“Thank you, Master Tahl,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “ That is most kind of you.”

She hums in response, and Bant strums happily low in her throat, as pleased as she always is when the people around her are getting along. Obi-Wan smiles, leaning into his friend’s side. “What have you two been up to lately, then?”

Bant bounces in her seat, and even Master Tahl offers a pleased sort of smile. “We’ve been pushing through a proposal with Madame Nu and the Council to reclaim some of the old temples.”

“Aren’t we already-“

“As in revitalizing them,” Bant cuts Obi-Wan off in her excitement. “So jedi can live there again. Temple’s Bane really highlighted how easily we could lose so much, just like with the cataclysm of Ossus, with how centralized we are and how few refuges we really have that are truly _ours_ and actually inhabitable. The current financial standing is the biggest hurdle, but the service corps components have plenty of volunteers and it looks like it might just be enough to go ahead with. The Kenobi Report –“ Bant ignores his faint grimace. “ – has actually been very helpful in narrowing down our most viable options among the most recently declined temples.”

Obi-Wan cant help but get caught up a bit – in her excitement, in the idea itself, and the shimmering promise of hope it represents.

“Which temples are you favoring?” he inquires, leaning in curiously.

Bant flushes happily, and her Master smiles over her shoulder. Across the table, Ben sips his tea, something very pleased turned up in the corner of his mouth.

“Well,” Bant gushes. “My opinion may be biased, but there _is_ this one ocean moon –“

~*~

“Pip,” Qui-Gon says sternly, gaze locked with one baleful amber eye. “You _cannot_ fly.”

The dwarf varctyl squirms, tail thwapping him in the side, gliding wings trying to wriggle free from where Qui-Gon has pinned them against his chest, the little menace cradled in his arms.

“Pip, _Pip_ -!” Qui-Gon protests, and distinctly sharp claws snag in his robes, one wing smacks him in the chin, and then Pip launches himself off Qui-Gon’s shoulder and down the corridor.

Again.

And again, the varactyl flails in the air and crashes off the wall in a tumble of squawking and feathers.

Qui-Gon sighs, running a hand over his face, as a disciple yelps, ducking, and Qui-Gon’s little companion seeks to land by smacking fully into the back of one jedi knight and clinging with claws and tail.

The knight stumbles into his dathomiri companion, who shoves him off quite roughly, and Qui-Gon recognizes Depa Billaba hiding a laugh with a polite hand on the other side of them before the knight straightens up, varactyl clinging to his neck and shoulders, and reveals themselves to be a rather bewildered Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Qui-Gon cannot help the reflexive tensing of his spine and cold drop of his stomach when he recognizes the younger jedi, but it loosens far easier now than it used to as he sighs to himself. To the best of his abilities, the two of them are not at odds.

Their interactions, however, are something he still finds difficult.

And, judging by the tight swallow Knight Kenobi suppresses upon recognizing _him_ , the feeling is mutual.

Pip sinks his head low into the crook of the baffled knights neck and pants for the effort of his abortive flight.

“Hello there,” Knight Kenobi remarks blandly, gaze dropping as best his is able to the varactyl’s head. “You’ve gotten big.”

And then he looks up, gaze seeking out Qui-Gon again, who clears his throat and strides down the corridor to collect his wayward charge.

“Knight Kenobi, Knight Billaba, Padawan Ventress,” Qui-Gon greets, a bit awkward in his politeness. There is a reddening scratch from Knight Kenobi’s ear to his chin, crossing his cheek quite blatantly where Pip must have caught him with a claw, and Qui-Gon can’t help but grimace internally.

“Master Jinn,” the trio of younger jedi bow, Pip’s wings flapping uncertainly, tail swishing for balance as Kenobi does so.

“I’ll – remove him,” Qui-Gon states, sighing at the adolescent varactyl, which blinks innocently back at him as if Qui-Gon hasn’t figured out by now that the creature is far too intelligent by half for him to be fooled by such a look.

“He seems to be growing quite well,” Knigh Kenobi remarks pleasantly, turning to give Qui-Gon better access.

“He is a _menace_ ,” Qui-Gon mutters.

“Oh,” the young knights voice drops a little. “Are you not fond of him? Perhaps someone else might-“

“I didn’t say that,” Qui-Gon grunts out, trying to peel Pip off the Mandalorian knight’s back, claws catching in seams of armor quite stubbornly. Knight Kenobi’s mouth twitches towards a relieved smile, and then twitches again in merry amusement at his struggle.

Qui-Gon does _not_ catch Depa Billaba’s eye and does _not_ acknowledge that his best friend’s former padawan is also laughing at him with her bright brown eyes, all crinkled at the corners.

“Pip,” Qui-Gon scolds, pausing to huff when the tail winds around Knight Kenobi’s arm and the claws curl into the silk collar at the back of his neck. “Pip, this is unbecoming. Let him go.”

Pip chirps and nuzzles his hand.

Pip does not let go.

“Knight Kenobi, I apologize.” Qui-Gon mutters, aggrieved. “You’re not preoccupied, I hope?”

“We’re on our way to put on a demonstration for the Council, actually,” Knight Billaba answers his query, voice teeming with amusement. “Perhaps you would like to join us, Master Jinn?”

Qui-Gon gives the girl a narrow look, certain she only wishes to drag this scene before her former master rather than offering out of anything suitably generous and cordial.

Padawan Ventress reaches out a curious hand to stroke the varactyl’s scarlet plumage, and Pip seems just as startled as she is when he nips her for it.

Then she glowers at the little beast, and Pip scrambles off Knight Kenobi’s shoulder and launches himself into the safety of Qui-Gon’s chest, scratching them both in the process as he scrambles up to perch on Qui-Gon’s shoulder and hiss at the girl, who hisses back through her teeth. Pip startles, head jerking back, mane of plumage lifting and flattening before he ducks his head into Qui-Gon’s hair, peering at her warily.

Padawan Ventress lifts a cool, challenging brow, and Pip grumbles, clacking his beak just once before tucking himself more tightly against Qui-Gon’s shoulder.

Knight Kenobi puffs a soft laugh, wiping absently at the new scratches across his neck.

“The offer still stands,” Knight Billaba remarks, still quietly but obviously amused.

“A demonstration?” Qui-Gon reiterates.

All three nod, though Knight Kenobi’s gaze shifts down a bit, seeming shy when the two women both give him significant looks.

Qui-Gon is suitably intrigued.

~*~

“Knight Kenobi,” Mace greets him with a curtly suspicious tone.

“Masters,” the young knight dips his head, bowing with demure grace to the Council members who have been assembled in one of the salles with their padawans, a few invitees, and some spectators who managed to slip in serenely enough that no one called them on their lack of any reasonable excuse to be here other than curiosity and shameless gossip.

Mace steeples his fingers, lips pursed, and wonders why the Force there is a bright red mark crossing half the young man’s face. Unfortunately, this is neither the time nor place to inquire.

“If we’re all assembled, you may proceed…” _with_ , Mace almost added, but caught quickly the fact that he would have nothing further to say after that, given that none of the three participants before him had seen fit to explain exactly what sort of demonstrative proposal they were putting forward in advance, dancing neatly around any gentle inquiries (in Depa and Obi-Wan’s case) and flatly refusing less nuanced inquiries (in Padawan Ventress’s case.)

Hence Mace’s disgruntled suspicion.

Depa nods simply, but the younger two cast quick glances about, eyes seeking their masters and friends; Padawan Ventress visibly relaxing when she spies her Master and her fellow dathomiri padawans; Knight Kenobi offering a charming smirk when he catches his master’s eye, which is fondly returned as Naasade leans back and settles in, arms crossed and gaze brightly focused.

“Thank you, masters. Today, this knight would like to demonstrate for you a lightsaber form of my own creation for review. This form is entitled Daosaan, and I offer it for consideration as the temple’s eighth official form.”

Mace swears his ears ring, as a breath held suddenly loosens, and then his stomach swoops in a quick succession of _suspicion-relief-wait a minute_ -!

Mace senses a cheeky grin under that sincere, placid look on Knight Kenobi’s face, and he would say that if the boy hadn’t _already_ had their attention –

But that would be folly.

Knight Kenobi _always_ had their attention.

Depa delivers to each councilor and the trio of present battlemasters the written codex for Knight Kenobi’s proposed form while he himself begins the demonstration in a series of separated katas and short explanations that progresses into a more fluid demonstration and a further oratory on the philosophy, development, and strengths, as well as the potential for expansion.

The form at first appears restless, though there is a cleanly centered gravitas to the sweeping arcs and coiled turns. It’s not a form that would favor close-quarters combat, he observes, but it is, he comes to realize, more conservative than it first appears. An endurance form, no doubt, but not as expensive in energy nor physical exertion as Ataru, and Knight Kenobi builds power into every fluid, skimming step and seemingly wild, twirling flash of his blade until Mace can _feel_ it – can all but see it spinning about him, like a storm in the center of the room.

Depa and Padawan Ventress both step up to challenge him, two on one, and the council sees the true defensive nature illuminate itself, turning negative space into advantage, spinning their own energies and efforts back against them – or against each other. He all but dances around his two opponents, stealing ground, stealing momentum, steeling leverage in the Force.

It’s not a perfect display – Padawan Ventress scores him across the elbow at least once, disrupting his efforts with raw pushes of sheer power and exceptionally advanced shii-cho – a Force guided form against a Force guided form, highlighting the echoes of the foundations between the two; Depa works her way slowly and persistently into his space, trying to cut through his inner guard – but where his own flexibility does not preserve him, the energy he’s gathered does, scattering Padawan Ventress’s surging attacks aside, forcing Depa’s meticulous progress back out.

“Ben!” Knight Kenobi calls once, and Master Naasade’s brows lift.

“Am I involved now?” he questions quietly, but rises from his seat next to Master Fay and steps down on the floor with languid ease and a touch of amused curiosity.

Depa and Padawan Ventress slide seamlessly to Knight Kenobi’s side as the jedi master ignites his copper saber.

Mace can feel the Force twist and pull, like a breeze carried in, and then one of the three snaps open a canister on their belt and suddenly there is water in the air and he can _see_ the Force twisting, plain as day, a gleaming stream tracing its way around the three of them in one continuous, unwavering channel of power.

Several spectators suck in breath, and someone mutters “pretty!”

It is an uncontested if unofficial claim that Ben Naasade is one of the most dangerous combatants in the Temple. He enters the fray with ease, and they meet him with just the same.

There isn’t a single misstep between the three of them, not a moment of hesitation or a single flash of uncertainty as they wind around each other, as Kenobi meets Naasade saber-flash for saberflash, as Ventress leaps high and Depa sweeps low and Ben scatters them but ends up surrounded, and the channel of power, multiplied a dozen times now, weaving like a web, like a perfect harmony, remains unbroken and sure.

Nasaade tears at it, those channels of power, but never quite manages to shatter them, another snapping into place when one falters, water scattering, hissing into steam when it catches a blade. He looks like he’s having fun, honestly, with three very eager and equally spry challengers testing themselves against his mettle.

Mace doesn’t flinch but Bultar and several others do, when a training droid suddenly starts firing across the sparring field, apparently assisting Naasade. Some of them are brushed aside, or dashed off of blades, but some of them snap into connection with those channels of power and crackle away into snapping energy, diffusing along the lines of power with darting flashes of light seemingly of their own accord.

The form holds, even when Obi-Wan takes a brutal kick to the stomach that has him wheezing out a curse most of the audience are probably going to pretend they didn’t hear and Ventress gets hurled into the floor. Naasade takes a few taps, narrowly avoids one swipe across his ribcage and is seemingly oblivious to the score Depa cuts through his artificial calf.

Depa almost catches his beard though, and Naasade – wily as he is – manages to twist out of danger and disarm her in a movement to fast to track. At first, Mace thinks Naasade threw her back – but no. She was ejected from where she stood by the connection between the three of them, and unconscious and seemingly effortless measure to remove her from harms way almost the second he lightsaber left her grasp, and the remaining two fill the void with the same ease in which Depa and Ventress had first stepped up to Obi-Wan’s side.

“Bravo!” Master Mundi cheers quietly.

Naasade glances between the remaining two, both poised and brimming with vital energy and with a wicked gleam in their eyes. There is an eerie exactness in the way they each twirl the sabers their holding in their left hands, waiting for the next move, physically still but for all the ways in which the energy around them was not.

Naasade grins sharply and brushes a lock of hair from his face, but then shakes out his hand and steps back with a soft, pleased sigh. “Was that enough?” he inquires.

Padawan Ventress seems, for a moment, as if she might pout, but Knight Kenobi nods.

“Thank you, Ben,” the young man smiles, flush with pride as well as activity.

“I’ll depart the floor, then,” Ben sketches a quick bow and steps aside, letting Obi-Wan and his companions recollect themselves and approach their audience.

Padawan Ventress lets out a grumbling sigh, stretches, and then something seems to – contract and ripple and give way in their shared energy and water splashes down around them.

“Asajj!” both Depa and Obi-Wan protest, unfairly doused.

“Sorry,” the winter-eyed girl mutters, the curling edge of her lip not seeming very sorry at all.

Mace will politely feign ignorance to Master Narec’s muffled but impolite snort.

Instead, the young Head of the Order clears his throat and looks pointedly at Knight Kenobi, who smiles with only a little sheepishness and bows once more.

“I will now take questions, masters.”

Mace meets that familiar blue-grey guileless look with extreme skepticism, and questions _himself_ as to whether or not it would be petty or deserved to ordain the boy as a Master for this.

There will be questions. There will be discussion and evaluations and all the appropriate review; but the outcome is not in doubt. Daosaan _will_ be officially confirmed as Form VIII. It had unique design and applications, distinct developmental stages all painstakingly detailed in the codex provided, and broad horizons for personal adaptations unto mastery, as well as providing its own signature advantage – that of the unity in combat for which other forms were sorely deficient.

Knight Kenobi, after all, had given this effort nothing less than everything that he had to give it.

As if reading his thoughts, however, Obi-Wan’s brow hardens, his lips thin and his gaze turns sharp – a more youthful and indignant version of Ben Naasade’s flat _don’t-you-dare_ warning look.

Mace leans back and lifts a distinctly unintimidated brow.


End file.
